


Red Blueprints

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood, Drama, First Kiss, Friendship, Humor, Idiots in Love, M/M, RvB Bingo War, Team Bonding, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-15 04:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10550288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: A collection of Red Team moments. For some reason these idiots always end up in adventures worth telling about.(Starts off with my entries for the RvB Bingo but will continue on after the event with more one-shots.)





	1. Make Me a Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palomo starts a matchmaking service while Grif and Simmons serve as the example of the perfect couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box “Matchmaking”.
> 
> Okay, so I wanted to explain why my WIP's won't really be updated these next two weeks: I am fighting for Red Team in the RvB war. I have now decided to post my work here as well so I won't be completely gone from this site, and maybe I can even find the time to work on my other stories as well. Until then, enjoy these daily one-shots.

Jensen hesitated before asking, “No, seriously, what are you doing?”

Before Palomo could even open his mouth, Bitters groaned loudly, “Don’t get him started again.”

But it was too late. Before anyone could stop him, Palomo had spread his papers all over the dining table. Some of them included colored diagrams, most of them in a shade of blue.

Jensen took a closer look at one of the papers, briefly wondering whatever the connection between ‘number of comic books’ and ‘maximum outcome’ could be, before she asked, “I am still not quite sure what you are doing.”

“I am getting a girlfriend!” Palomo announced proudly, earning another sigh from Bitters and an amused nod from Smith.

After another glance at the colorful papers in front of her, Jensen asked gingerly, “So you’re adding theory to this plan?”

“Well, Captain Tucker tried to help me out at the last party with, you know, talking to girls but…”

“ _But_ he got rejected,” Bitters finished for him, twirling a fork between his fingers. His dinner tray lay untouched in front of him as the conversation stole his attention from the food. “Four times. At the last party alone.”

Jensen winched behind her visor. “Oh. Sorry to hear that, Palomo.”

“Yeah…” He sighed but then suddenly cheered up again. “But Captain Tucker said it was only because I had not found the right girl yet. So that is what I’m doing.”

After a couple of seconds with confused silence, Bitters cut to the chase, “He’s starting a matchmaking service.”

“Oh.”

“I still feel like you are leading them on,” Smith commented shortly and tilted his head to send the papers a displeased glance.

Palomo shrugged. “I am leading them to _me_. That makes it okay.”

“So it’s not an actual service?”

“Depends on how much service you see in signing yourself up and immediately get paired with Palomo. He’s the only male involved so far.” Bitters let out a snort. “You almost sounded disappointed, Katie.”

“This whole project is still depending on girls actually signing up,” Smith reminded Palomo who was keeping himself busy by scribbling down notes.

“But we’re in a war zone!” Palomo reminded him with a tsk. “Love always blossoms in a war zone. Besides, I am offering two free cans of soda.”

Bitters snorted again, a bit more laughter to it this time, and doubled over slightly. “Why not use a picture of Smith’s torso as clickbait while you’re at it?”

“Don’t get me involved in this.”

“We share locker room with you, Smith – we’ve all seen your abs.”

Palomo ignored Bitters’ suggestion and instead looked up to ask, “I just need to get the questions right. So I can sort the girls. We should start with the basic – ‘what are you doing for a living?’”

“Fighting. Which can be said about everyone. On Chorus. In the last five years,” Bitters reminded him dryly.

“Okay, maybe that was not the best question. Ooh. Rebel or Fed?”

Jensen made a disapproving sound. “That’s very judgmental of you, Palomo.”

“I just want to find the girl with smallest desire to kill me.”

“So you’re going with the Feds then?” Bitters concluded. “I mean, the Rebel girls know you.”

“Huh. Good point,” Palomo admitted and scribbled down the question.

Then, across the mess hall, a shriek rung out, “ _I am going to kill you_!” None of the eating soldiers as much as flinched – this had become the daily routine by now.

“Geez, Simmons, take it a bit harder, would you?” An orange-armored soldier entered the hall, quickly followed by a maroon soldier who seemed to be breathing down his neck.

The Lieutenants continued on undisturbed, letting the argument become background noise. Palomo looked up at his friend on the other side of the table. “You got any ideas, Katie?”

“I guess fellow interests are a good start. Some common ground.”

“Do you have any idea of how long I spent updating that terminal?!” Simmons continued to yell some tables behind them. “And you just wrecked it again by trying to download that _filth_!”

Grif walked calmly as if unaware of the cyborg screaming at him. “Well, I didn’t know your nerd  stuff was that fragile!”

“Of course you didn’t! You don’t know shit!”

Palomo waved off Jensen’s suggestion. “Nah, too open. I don’t want to read two pages about shopping. I’m going to have a lot of answers to sort through. I need a quick system.”

“So short fun questions then?” Jensen caught on while collecting Palomo’s papers into a small pile. “Like… What would you spend a million dollars on?”

“Snackcakes, Simmons, snackcakes. I’m telling you – it’s the solution. If Kimball wants better working morale around here, I say free snackcakes to everyone. Might even get you to stop yelling at me as the first fucking thing in the morning.”

“I wouldn’t have to be yelling if you had not destroyed all my hard work with your dirty habits!”

Bitters was slowly unwrapping a snack bar from Gold Team’s latest raid when his head perked up at Jensen’s comment. “Like that’d do any good. Chorus doesn’t have dollars. Or anything worth a million.”

“It’s a hypothetical question, Bitters.”

“So? If we think hypothetically, Palomo could imagine any girlfriend he wants.”

“I want a girl who is willing to praise me. Boost my self-confidence,” Palomo declared and added it to his list.

“So you want a girl to give you a high-five?” Bitters concluded, crushing the wrapping paper into a small ball in his hand.

“I think I have to agree with Palomo on this one,” Jensen said softly. “I wouldn’t mind being in a relationship where we openly express our admiration for each other.”

Bitters threw the ball back and forth between his hands as he snorted, “Is this the high-five club?”

“I don’t understand how anyone can be that stupid!” Simmons groaned loudly. The Captains were slowly making their way to the Lieutenants’ table.

“You’re the one who didn’t add a fucking password in the first place!”

Jensen shrugged at Bitters’ comment. “No, just some sweet nicknames every once and again, I suppose.”

“Dumbass.”

“Nerd.”

Bitters’ visor hid the way he rolled his eyes. “So serenades? Full-blown love confessions?”

“I hate you.”

“I hate you more.”

Jensen straightened out her back. Both Smith and Palomo instinctly inched backwards a little, knowing she was about to enter her scolding-mode. “Now you’re just being bitter, Antoine. It’s not like you have a relationship to brag about.”

“Yeah, neither do you. Or Smith. Or Palomo.”

“Just give it a few days!”

“It’s not going to work,” Bitters told him sternly. Crossing his arms, he waited for an argument to start, well-knowing he was capable of proving his point.

“What is going on here?” Simmons asked, causing all the Lieutenants to jerk slightly. The Captains had now finally reached the table and were staring down at Palomo’s colorful plans in confusion.

“Well…”  

Before Palomo could begin his explanation, Smith folded his hands and replied calmly, “This is Palomo asking Jensen on a date.”

All the helmets in various colors first turned towards Palomo, then towards Jensen who was blushing so much it could somehow be seen through the visor.

The two Lieutenants briefly shared a glance, both rubbing their necks awkwardly.

“Sure,” she finally said in a light tone, avoiding visor-contact. “I never minded being a test subject before.”

“Well, that sounds romantic.”

“Like you’re the one to talk, Grif,” Simmons immediately barked at him. “You don’t have an ounce of romance in your body.”

“Half my body’s yours. So my ounce may have been crushed by the tank. So that’s Tucker’s fault.”

Simmons was just about to retort, finger already half-raised into a scolding position, when Palomo suddenly exclaimed, “You guys can help me out! What did you do on your first date?”

The two Captains both turned their heads towards him, the tension leaving their bodies as their stances slumped into one of confusion.

“Wait… What?”

“You don’t call it dating after marriage, Palomo.” Bitters leaned back in his chair. “After that it’s like obligated social sessions.”

“Who the fuck said we were married?” Simmons asked. His voice was very loud but thin, close to cracking had the suppressed annoyance not kept it stable.

The four Lieutenants slowly shared glances, suddenly unsure of how and whether they should continue the conversation. Eventually it was of course Smith who tried to explain, “Captain Tucker insisted-“

“Is he still doing that?!” Simmons sputtered, almost losing his grip on his tray.

“Apparently,” Grif replied with a shrug. He kept his gaze on the table, serving as a calm contrast to the maroon soldier who was freaking out next to him.

“So you all believed…”

“‘bout the marriage thing?” Bitters finished Simmons’ question and nodded. “Sure. Had my doubts ‘bout the name tattoos though.”

Simmons froze, the horror of the realization hitting his body. “What?” he asked, voice wavering by this point.

“It would be a bit overkill, I suppose.” Jensen looked up at her Captain. “I mean, the skin drafts and cyborg limbs do tell the story. Tattoos probably aren’t needed. Unless for aesthetic reasons.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Simmons declared, tray shaking in his hands. “I’m going to kill him, and then I’m coming back to kill _you_.” He turned his head sharply to send Grif one last dark glare before storming out of the mess hall.

Grif snorted and then called after him, “Hey, when you scold Tucker, tell him that just because he got a name tattoo doesn’t mean we’re that lame.” When Simmons was out of hearing range, he chuckled slightly under his breath and let out an impressed whistle as he turned towards the Lieutenants again, “Man, it’ll take forever to wipe that blush off his face. Nice work by the way.”

“Thank you, sir,” Smith replied proudly, completing his second achievement of the morning.

Palomo sent Jensen another smile through the visor, before turning towards Grif, a hand on the forgotten bunch of papers on the table. “So about that first date…”

“Two words for you, kid: Vegas Quadrant.”


	2. To Share a Robot Love So Real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lopez faces pendejos and memories of a puerto del acero.

“Hey, Lopez?”

The robot froze, knowing the problem as soon as Grif’s voice called out. A moment later the soldier appeared – dirt and soot on his armor adding to Lopez’ fears.

“Hey, buddy. You aren’t busy, are you?” Grif said quickly and nonchalantly, looking at his own outstretched hand, flicking some dry grass off his glove.

“ ¿Te destrozaste el jeep de nuevo?” [Did you wreck the jeep again?]

“Good. ‘cause the jeep is wrecked. No one really knows why. Mystery of the day. Sarge is blaming the Blues. Also, he wants the jeep ready at noon?”

“Si usted necesita un jeep para su fecha estúpida, entonces tal vez no debería haber destruido. Pendejo.” [If you need a jeep for your stupid date then maybe you should not have wrecked it. Dumbass.]

While Grif could not speak a simple sentence in Spanish the word _pendejo_ had been used enough times, almost five times a day at this point, for him to realize it did not exactly mean _friend_. He tilted his helmet. “Oh c’mon. It’s really important. How can Simmons and I go on patrol if we can’t drive? Fucking _walk_?” He snorted in disbelief at the thought.

“Un paseo probablemente no te lastimaría, culón.” [A walk would probably not hurt you, fatass.]

“’sides I can’t really see anything else broken around here. So I just did you a favor by pointing out your task of the day! You can thank me later.”

Lopez took one step forward and Grif cowered slightly immediately.

Holding his arms around his helmet to protect it, he whined, “Ah shit. Don’t hit me. _Again_. Can you fix the jeep? Please? Thanks, and all that that stuff.”

Lopez sighed – air being cleared from his upper filters – but then walked outside with stiff steps, well-knowing he would have the fix the jeep again in the evening.

* * *

 

This time it was Simmons who walked up on him from behind while the robot was working. “Uhm, heeey, Lopez.”

The robot halted his work, lowering his hammer as he stopped trying to fix the hole the Blues had shot in their wall during their last attack. The maroon-armored soldier was fiddling his thumbs and cleared his throat nervously when Lopez turned his head to stare at him. “My man. Brother from another fax.”

“Por favor no digas eso.” [Please do not say that.]

“So, uhm, there’s a smaaaaaalll problem.” He stepped aside, revealing the burning warthog in the background. “And it may be on fire.”

Lopez debated whether or not it would be worth causing himself a short circuit right now, but after a couple of seconds he rose to find the fire extinguisher.

* * *

 

Donut had a confusing habit of sitting down next to him whenever Lopez rested while installing updates. When his sensors switched online again, he would discover the pink-armored soldier talking to himself (or maybe to Lopez – it was almost the same thing at this point) while reading from a Spanish children book.

He was not quite sure if it was an attempt to teach him English or to teach Donut Spanish, but the results seemed to be the same either way you looked at it.

“Ah, so that’s how you pronounce it! I keep getting it stuck in my throat. And that’s not the thing I want to choke on. The pictures really help, don’t they? I don’t mind having his naranjas in my bolsa, if you know what I mean.”

Lopez did not know what he meant. Instead of replying, he proceeded with update 4.12b.

* * *

 

“Lopez!” Sarge grunted and pulled out a red blueprint, holding it in front of the robot so he had no other choice but to look at it.

“Sí?”

“I need your thoughts on my latest plan. I call it _bluetiful bombardments_. See, if we use the rocket launcher but fill it was something else we could upgrade the rocket launcher from a rocket launcher to a rocket and/or miscellaneous launcher. But the real question:” The red leader straightened out his back as he looked over the robot he had built. “How far can you throw that head of yours without losing that so-called weefee connection?”

Lopez considered. “Desafortunadamente no lo suficientemente lejos para sacarme de este cañón.” [Unfortunately not far enough to get me out of this canyon.]

* * *

 

Dinner at Red Base had a certain rhythm to it.

“But tonight would be perfect!”

“No, Donut, we’re not having another karaoke night.”

“But it would lighten the mood!”

“You know what would lighten up my mood? More bacon.”

“More? Have can you have _more_ bacon if we don’t have _any_ bacon to begin with?”

“Exactly, Simmons. It’s a tragedy.”

“Does this mean you’re signing up for-“

“ _No_.”

“But we already have the equipment!”

“Why and how did you even manage to order karaoke equipment to begin with?!”

“I still say we turn it into a weapon. Install a speaker in Blue Base, let the dirtbag have his go with it, and see those dirty Blues come running out like fleeing rabbits. I’ll have my buckshot ready, heh.”

“Yeah? Then what if I can actually sing? Have you considered that, Sarge?”

“Does that mean-“

“ _No_!”

Lopez only turned himself online every once and awhile to refill himself with the can of oil that Donut had placed at the robot’s end of the table.

* * *

 

Lopez was always the last one to go to bed, if it could be called that. He did not have a bed. Instead he would position himself in the corner of the kitchen, the furthest away from the others’ sleeping quarters as possible.

By the time he switched himself online, the other Reds had left the dining table which Donut had cleaned before leaving as well.

With the humans sleeping, the base was for once quiet. Lopez’ heavy footsteps seemed to echo as he walked to the top of their home, ending his day with his brief, daily patrol. Should the Blues decide to launch a midnight attack, he would prefer to know about it, not say anything, and instead silently hope for the jeep to survive.

He glanced at the Blue Base in the distance, wondering if that buzzing at the end of his memory unit was caused by a virus. Deciding to ignore it, he walked back down, on his way to his corner.

That was when he noticed Donut’s microphone in the corner of his vision scanners.

Lopez halted and considered.

It was only a few steps away from his corner. It was turned off, of course, and the robot kept it that way. Placing himself behind the microphone, Lopez considering that strange buzzing that was disturbing his systems.

Then, softly:

“La primera vez que vi sus pisadas  
Y sus puerto del acero  
Supe que había encontrado alguien  
Para compartir un verdadero…”  
[The first time I saw your treads  
And enormous chassis of steel  
I knew that I had found someone  
To share a robot love so real…]

The robot cut himself off so suddenly that he might as well have experience a failure in his speech component. He slowly raised his head with a stiff motion in order to stare at Grif who was standing just as frozen in the doorway.

“Uh…”

Grif stared.

Lopez stared.

Grif slowly lifted a chip from the bag he had been fetching from the kitchen, placed it gently on his tongue, all while staring at the robot.

Lopez then clenched a fist, staring back.

Almost dropping his snacks in fear, Grif jumped backwards. “Please don’t strangle me.”

The robot took a step towards him.

“I won’t say a word,” he whimpered, holding up his bag of chips in front of his face, as if it could serve as a shield. Freezing again, he reconsidered, and instead he held out the bag as if it served as an offering, “Here. Take it.”

Lopez did not as much as reach out for it.

“Look, buddy,” Grif said, voice wavering slightly from anxiety. “I like staying alive. And you, apparently, like singing. So we can work something out. I won’t say anything. You won’t say anything.” When he received no response, he gingerly added, “And I’ll try not to break the jeep this week.” The silence remained. “Next two weeks?”

Finally Lopez let out something that sounded like a grunt of approval.

Grif let out a deep breath of relief, his defensive stance deflating. “Great. So I get to live?”

“Sí.”

“Cool.” Grif slowly began to walk sideways out of the room, eyes on Lopez the entire time. But the robot was only alone for a few seconds before the Hawaiian’s head peaked around the doorway again. “So, is this like a daily thing or…?”

Lopez just lifted his head the slightest, but the small action was enough.

Grif whimpered again. “Right. Going now. _Running_. Now. Bye.”

For the next five minutes, Lopez remained where he was standing, eyes scanning, noise detectors registering any sound. But the base was asleep – so much could he conclude from the faint but regular creaking from Sarge’s room whenever he shifted in the bed, and the low, cheerful murmurs from Donut who had a habit of sleep-talking, and the constant hissing from Simmons’ cyborg lungs and then Grif’s snoring to complete the Red Base’s night rhythm.

Lopez wandered back to his corner with stiff steps. Hands down by his side, back straightened but with his chin area of his helmet resting against his chest plate, he took his stance.

And then, a hum low enough to be confused with the whirring of gears, the robot sung, “…para compartir un verdadero…”

With red lights dimming behind the visor, Lopez went into sleep mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Lopez Apreciación” 
> 
> Can we please acknowledge that Lopez sung the best love song of the century?


	3. Sharing is Caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s Grif vs. Simmons, and Simmons vs. Grif, and Wash is about to throw himself of a cliff.

“So…” Simmons began slowly after having listened to Wash’ instructions. The three of them were in the training hall after _someone_ (whose name Grif now cursed) had suggested the Reds to be taught some physical combat moves. While Donut had enjoyed the idea of close body contact, he was currently stuck on armory duty and Sarge was nowhere to be seen, leaving a nervous Simmons and a sullen Grif to face the Freelancer. “When you say ‘his arm’… Is that my arm?”

Wash blinked behind his visor. “What?”

“Are we talking about his right arm or left arm?” Simmons asked further, honest confusion tainting his voice. He pointed at the orange soldier next to him. “Because his left arm is mine.”

“I… I’m fairly sure Grif’s arm is Grif’s,” Wash replied dryly.

“No, technically-“

“Fuck your ‘technically’ - I don’t see your name on it,” Grif suddenly spat, crossing his arms to bring said limb closer to himself.

“It’s pretty fucking obvious it’s my arm, Grif!”

He shook his head. “Freckles can’t work as a signature.” Before Simmons could begin to argue – and he had already raised a finger to defend his point – Grif turned his head to face the Freelancer instead. “Wash, do freckles count as a signature?”

“I-”

Grif cut him off before any true answer (or demand for them to shut up) could leave Wash’ mouth. “See, Simmons. They don’t.”

The Freelancer was face-palming at this point, gloved hand pressed against his visor, and he inhaled sharply before facing Simmons again. “Just grab Grif’s arm and-“

“Which arm?” The confusion in his voice prevented the interruption from being directly impolite. Simmons actually looked like he was paying attention: back straight and visor focused on Wash.

“Left.”

“So my arm?”

Wash flexed his fingers. With a low but quick voice he tried again, “Take his arm and twist it behind his back like I showed you.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” Grif was backing away, inching towards the exit. He was looking at Wash when he asked in suspicion, “Is this going to hurt?”

“No.” Wash hesitated slightly, considering, and then added, “Okay, slightly. The intention for this move is to dislocate the shoulder but we’ll stop before that happens.”

Grif stared at him for full five seconds. He did not move the slightest, though his tense stance indicated he could very well bolt at any moment. Not that Grif was actually capable of fleeing that quickly but he would at least make an attempt of a lazy escape or just pretend to be dead on the floor. It had happened before. Then, finally, he spoke,“Fuck that shit.”

“Grif. It’s a training sessions. You’re not going to get hurt. You’re going to get sore. There’s a difference.”

“I… I’m actually agreeing with Grif,” Simmons said gingerly, earning a surprised glance from both of the other soldiers.

“Really?” Grif actually looked like the comment had brightened him up: he abandoned his slumped over stance for a moment, replacing it with a raised and tilted head in happy surprise.

“Well, if I accidently hurt his arm, I’d give myself phantom pains,” the maroon soldier explained and immediately Grif’s shoulders slouched.

“Geez. Your concern is warming my heart.”

Simmons snorted at that comment and defended himself, “I’m just thinking practically.”

“What the fuck happened to all your practical thinking when Sarge was using his shotgun at me?!”

“He wasn’t even close at hitting you. And if you had just followed his orders-“

“Would you two _please_ focus for a second?!” Wash barked. His voice was sharp enough for the two Reds to halt their argument, both turning their helmets towards him to await further orders. Or maybe just to send him the stink-eye. No one really knew what was happening behind the visors. “Thank you. Simmons, just demonstrate the hold on Grif.”

Simmons had barely taken two steps towards his teammate before Grif jumped back. “ _No_. Look, Simmons has a fucking super strength cyborg hand. That’s cheating. He’s going to tear off my arm when he panics!”

“I’m not going to panic!” Simmons said with a voice loud enough to indicate that he was just about to panic. Turning his head sharply, he stared at the Freelancer in what might have been a plea. “Can’t Wash just demonstrate it?”

“I don’t need to learn the hold,” Wash said slowly, constantly inhaling air to keep himself calm. “I know the hold. I am _trying_ to teach you guys the hold.”

“I could learn it afterwards and then Grif could-“

“What?” Grif snorted. “Learn how it feels to be stuck in an uncomfortable position? I think I know that feeling. You know, since being drafted into a shit war.”

“I am regretting this decision.” Wash looked up at the ceiling in defeat. “When I was asking you two to fight, I did not mean verbally.” He took in other breath before lowering his head. “Simmons. Hold. Demonstrate.”

Simmons did as commanded, walking closer to the orange soldier. Then, as he was about two feet away from him, Grif threatened in a low and calm voice that somehow worked surprisingly well coming from the lazy soldier. “I’m going to sit on you.”

He kept his visor set on Simmons who immediately took one step backwards.

“Okay.” Wash gave up, already heading towards the exit. “That’s it. Carolina will take over from here.”

Knowing the other Freelancer would be more than happy to demonstrate the hold on them multiple times in order to get them started, Simmons held up his hands, going, “No, no, no, no, no. Wait. Okay.” With no other options left he moved behind the scowling Grif who remained where he was standing. The maroon soldier hesitated. “…so it’s my arm?”

Simmons tried to look at Wash for further guidance but the question had sent the Freelancer marching out of the hall.

“Can’t we just stick with the guns?” Grif asked with a shrug, a tired moan in his voice.

“Then you’d just have to learn how to aim, dipshit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Sparring".


	4. The Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons had never seen a dead person before and now Grif would not even make things easier by dying quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for blood and slight gore in this chapter.

Simmons had never seen a dead person before. Not that he was complaining. To come face to face with a body was something he had expected when he had signed up for the war, whether that body would be the one of an enemy or a teammate.

But Blood Gulch had been surprisingly calm so far, with the only death being a Blue, and the Reds had not even been the ones to kill him.

He had supposed a death would be messy. Blood and gunshots and all that stuff. But this? This was a bit… more than he had expected. Feared.

Simmons looked down at the broken body before him, red steadily growing in a big pool under the cracked armor. There was a lot of blood. More than he had believed could be inside a human body.

There was a lump in his throat and he was sure he was about to throw up had his body not been so uselessly frozen. Simmons remained where he stood, staring down at Grif’s cracked visor, his bloody armor, his crushed limbs. He was fairly sure he saw a glimmer of white. A bone, probably. Simmons was looking at Grif’s bone. Which should be covered by flesh and skin.

Simmons was truly impressed he had not thrown up yet.

“Oh well,” Sarge huffed next to him though his voice sounded pretty distant. Maybe Simmons was about to pass out? He wished he would. He could not understand why he was still staring at the bloody pile in front of him. “I suppose the dirtbag did earn himself a grave. Good thing we already have the mass grave prepared for the Blues. Might have to expand it a bit ‘fore we have enough space for the body.”

“Uhm guys?” Donut was kneeling next to Grif – the body of Grif – and his gloves were stained red. “I think he’s still alive.”

“Oh.”

Donut rose and now they were all three staring down at the broken man. None of them really said anything or moved, and the silence was growing ever so uncomfortable.

How typical of Grif. Now when he was supposed to be dead he still managed to defy all odds and cling to life. Here he was, bleeding out beneath them, and no one really knew what to do.

There was a buzzing inside Simmons’ head which he had to ignore in order to collect his thoughts. They could fetch Doc. Maybe. Wherever he might be. But… Well, judging from the medic’s skills he might not be the biggest help. And Simmons believed pouring orange juice in Grif’s wounds would be painful enough to kill him anyway.

His throat hurt. It felt strangely constricted, preventing him from commenting on the situation. Not that he had anything to say, anyway.

“Shouldn’t we do something?” Donut finally asked, looking at Simmons before turning his head towards Sarge. The pool of blood was now so big it was almost touching Simmons’ boots. It would take forever to clean them. Grif always messed up his stuff.

“Okay,” Sarge replied immediately, cocking his shotgun before aiming it at Grif’s head.

Donut let out an _eep_ and placed himself in front of the weapon, spreading out his arms to serve as a better shield. “No, I mean medical stuff. Ooh, what about that cyborg surgery, Sarge? I still have my nurse uniform – we could get started right now!”

The pink soldier was stepping in some of the blood. Simmons wondered if he had noticed. A piece of Grif’s shattered visor had fallen to the ground, revealing a sliver of Grif’s dark face. His eye was closed. Simmons reminded himself that Grif’s eyes had been – were- brown.

“Requirements are still either trustworthy or stupid. And while the dirtbag may be close to fulfill requirement number two, it is a very known fact that disloyalty taints stupidity until it is proven otherwise. That makes the dirtbag’s current score ‘ _fit for_ _court-martial_.”

“Oh,” Donut said, disappointed, and raised his glance so he was looking at Simmons.

Simmons could understand Sarge’s reasoning. Totally. Grif would be a horrible cyborg. He would never keep up his own maintenance. He would probably rust or his gears would get blocked by the remains of his snack. He would fuck himself up. Just look at how quickly he had already managed to do that in a human body.

There was his horrible eating habits and his lack of hygiene and his smoking problem. And now came the tank.

Yeah, Grif was bound to die an early death.

Simmons’ vision was swimming.

Grif was a horrible choice to be Sarge’s most trusted soldier. He had never earned such promotion. It was all unfair, really.

He sniffed, raising his hand weakly before realizing the visor was hindering him from wiping his own nose.

Simmons would be a good cyborg. Okay, the whole cyborg thing would suck. Probably. Robots were cool and all that, but to have… Being stuck with mechanical limbs was not something Simmons had expected when he had signed up for the army.

But on the other hand, neither was Blood Gulch and a base filled with a crazy Sergeant and a soldier too kind for his own good and a lazy draftee who never did the dishes or helped cleaning their room and he would always steal Simmons’ pillow and he would always make fun of Simmons and he would call him a nerd but he would never stop talking with Simmons, he would never ignore him, and he was willing to spend all night talking about stupid shit and…

Donut would probably be a good roommate. At least his side of the room would be spotless. Probably smell a bit like roses.

Simmons never liked roses.

And Grif’s dirty laundry had almost become a familiar, comforting smell by now.

There was a drop of blood running down Grif’s forehead, Donut was wringing his hands, and Sarge was doing a good job at not looking at the dying soldier in front of him.

And Simmons kept thinking…

Simmons had never seen a dead person before, and now it was up to him whether now was the time to face a body.

And stupid Grif would not even hurry up and die and make Simmons’ choice for him. Of course Grif was always making things more difficult.

Without lifting his glance from Grif, Simmons cleared his throat.

“Hey, Sarge? I, uhm… I think I might have an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Simmons appreciation".


	5. Donut, Do Not-

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Reds and Blues work together in order to summon Agent Double-O Donut and/or Officer Hot-Pants.

Most of the times the Reds would come knocking on Blue Team’s door, they wouldn’t really be knocking. They would be firing gunshots or missiles or - what they seemed to believe was the most effective weapon –insults.

But today, however, Tucker looked down from the top of the base to see two unarmed Reds at the entrance. Grif was scowling, arms crossed, while Simmons was waving at Tucker. “We come in peace!”

“Yeah? Then where’s your white flag?”

“Sarge colored all our towels red,” the Red yelled back as explanation. “I could have brought one but I thought it would send the wrong message.”

“What do you want then?” Tucker tilted his head, sending a glance towards Grif who had remained silent so far. “Is this another one of Grif’s suicide missions? Did Sarge strap a bomb to him again?”

“No,” Simmons answered quickly.

Next to him, Grif muttered under his breath, “Feels like it.”

The maroon soldier ignored the comment and continued to yell, “We just want to talk!”

“What is going on?” Church and Caboose appeared behind Tucker, having left the inside of the base to investigate the yelling. When he noticed the newcomers, Church groaned. “Why are the Reds here?”

“Can we please just talk?”

“Let me just give you the quick version of this.” Church walked closer so he was standing at the edge of the roof. “No, we are not surrendering just because you ask nicely. No, we do not want Grif on our team – we both deal with our own idiotic teammates. And no, for the last fucking time, we do not want your obviously poisoned girl scout cookies.”

Caboose’s helmet tilted upwards with an excited gasp. “Did you just say cookies?”

“We don’t have any more of those! Grif ate them all!”

“How is he still alive?!” Tucker asked in confusion, now keeping a sharp eye on Grif who, apparently, could turn out to be a zombie.

“I don’t know. The universe hates us.”

“So if you’re not here to destroy Blue Team then what do you want?!” Church demanded, aiming at them with his rifle just in case.

Grif and Simmons shared a glance, then sighed, but eventually Simmons cut to the chase. “It’s Donut’s birthday.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a Red Team problem,” Church snorted while Caboose was already singing the Birthday Song in the background. “Why the fuck do you think we care?”

“Because we need your help.”

“And I repeat myself: why the fuck do you think we-“

“Just listen,” Simmons sighed, wringing his hands. “We can’t really order any presents and the plan was to hold one his beloved wine and cheese hours _but-_ “ he turned his head sharply to send Grif a dark glare, “ _someone_ ate all the wine and cheese.”

“There was no name on it!”

“Fucking fatass!”

Church groaned loudly again, running a hand across his visor. “Getting really tired of repeating myself here but let’s go through it again: why the fuck do you thi-“

“Really?” Tucker snorted. “ _You_ are getting tired of listening to your own voice? Never saw that coming.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Hey, fuckfaces!” Grif called out, stopping them before an argument could break out between the Blues. “You fucking owe us.”

“How the fuck do we owe you anything?”

“’cause you exploded Donut’s head?” Simmons asked in a _duh_ kind of voice.

On the top of the base, Tucker shifted uncomfortably. Church lowered his rifle again. “ _Tex_ exploded Donut’s head.”

“She was on your team, asshole!” Grif yelled back, hands on his sides. “Also you guys did run me over with a tank and you shot Sarge in the head and-“

“We’re at fucking war! What did you expect us to do – throw flowers at you? Not our fault that your team is too incompetent to do any real damage.”

“But we’re not at war any longer!” Simmons called back. “Well, not _really_. ‘sides, it’s _Donut_.”

“We know what his name is!”

Church was distracted by Caboose suddenly patting his back. “Church? I really want to go to Private Biscuit’s birthday party.”

“We could at least hear them out,” Tucker suggested with a shrug. He had placed his rifle on his back.

With a loud sigh, Church turned around to face the Reds again. “ _Fine_. What’s your plan? A fucking surprise party?”

Grif and Simmons shared another glance. “Something like that…”

“Just spill it!”

“We’re going to let Donut play Agent Double-O Donut.”

“ _Doonut_ ,” Simmons had to add under his breath.

The Blues hesitated, looking back and forth between the Reds. “ _What_?”

Simmons spread out his arms. “We pretend that you guys have captured us. Donut will naturally go on a rescue mission. You will pretend to surrender, he will free us and he will have the best day of his life because he gets to play the hero.”

Tucker laughed. “Never saying no to some role-playing.”

“Okay, that sounds… _manageable_ . But I don’t want Sarge trying to storm the base again. He did that yesterday. Three times.”

“Sarge won’t be a part of this,” Simmons promised. “We left behind a note saying that Grif was captured. I’m supposed to be gone on some secret mission. Sarge won’t lift a finger to save Grif. Well, he might write you a thank-you letter…”

“Can’t we just get this over with?” Grif sighed. “The sooner we get to it the sooner it’s over.”

“You just want to see if they have anything in their fridge,” Simmons whispered angrily back to him.

On the roof Church complained, “This is so fucking stupid.”

“Well, it’s Donut,” Tucker tried to reason. “He can’t really do that much harm.”

“ _Fine_. Tucker, do you have any handcuffs we can-“

“You know I do. Didn’t really expect to use them on these guys. Pretty disappointing, actually.”

“Can’t we gag them?” Church moaned, “I can’t stand having to listen to their pillow talk for the next hour.”

“We can fucking hear you!”

“You better be damn grateful for this, Reds!”

* * *

 

“This is stupid.”

“Well, I only had one set of handcuffs,” Tucker explained as he finished chaining the two Reds together by their wrist.

Grif shook his hand, testing his limited freedom. “I did not sign up to get stuck with the nerd.”

“I’m the one chained to _you_. That’s equivalent of one of those metal ball chains. Except that you are heavier.”

“Haha – fuck you.”

Church marched into the center of the base, shaking his head, “I’m just saying it now – _gags_. Would make the whole thing more believable.”

“What did you do with Caboose?”

“He’s keeping watch _outside_ the base. We want the prisoners alive after all.”

Church’s comment caused Simmons to stiffen slightly. “Uh, thanks.”

Getting himself comfortable, Church sat down in one of the chairs, throwing his head back. “How long do you think it’ll take for-“

As if he had jinxed it – which he probably had – an explosion sounded and the floor above them shook. The all looked up in wonder. “That was quick,” Tucker said, voice slightly impressed.

Simmons shrugged. “He’s usually not that fast.”

“Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

Church inhaled sharply before putting his glance upon the Reds. “Any chance that you had some grenades left in your base.”

Grif and Simmons shared a glance. “Uhm…”

“Now when I think about it we should probably just have put a bow on one of them,” Grif said with a snort.

“Yeah,” Church responded with a slow and dry voice. “You really should have.”

Another explosion, louder this time, and the roof shook enough for Tucker and Church to leap for cover under the table.

Grif and Simmons tried to run to safety as well, only to go in different directions, causing the handcuff to pull the back together, groaning as they slammed their helmets against each other.

* * *

 

“It’s all about the wrist,” Donut explained to Caboose. “You have to flick it. But keep a firm grasp – you don’t want the ball to slip out of your hand.”

“Thank you for playing ball with me,” Caboose said as Donut demonstrated his throw once again. The grenade landed on top of Blue Base as intended, causing another explosion.

Donut tilted his head. “I still don’t see that basketball hoop you were talking about. I’m afraid my aim is off.”

“No, it’s there,” Caboose said firmly. “Church always uses it when I ask him to play ball. It’s a very big hoop, very squarey. The ball disappear when you get a goal. That’s how you win. Church is very good at playing ball.”

“Oh.” Donut had a faint memory of Sarge complaining about the bunch of balls that seemed to have piled up in the middle of the canyon, at the other end of the teleporter. But he quickly abandoned that memory: he had his friend to think about! 

And he had already been distracted enough by Caboose spotting the grenades hanging from his belt, asking if they could play ball – and, well, Donut could never resist talking about balls. He was also fairly sure he had taught the Blue a whole new hand-move. “Have you seen Grif lately?”

“Ah, yes. He’s inside the base. With Simmons. They’re playing.”

“Simmons is there too?!” Donut gasped. “Are they alright?”

“Church said they are a pain-“

“They’re in pain?!”

“-and that I must not talk with them. They want them all for themselves.”

Donut gasped again, slamming his hands against his visor this time. “Are they torturing them?!”

“It’s very rough for all of them,” Caboose nodded, somewhat repeating one of Church’s comment when Grif had complained about his part of the plan.

“They’re manhandling them!” he exclaimed in shock. “I have to be there! Quick, where’s the back entrance?! Double-O Donut never comes the way you expect!”

Donut was already leaping towards Blue Base when Caboose called out, “Happy birthday, Mister Muffin.”

“Aw, thank you, Caboose.” He sent the Blue the widest smile – too bad it was hidden by the visor. “I’ll come back later to let you play with my balls.”

* * *

 

“Fuck this shit!”

Simmons reached up with his free hand to rub his sore neck. “It’s just Donut.”

“It’s Donut with grenades,” Church corrected him. “Which might be the only dangerous thing on your team.”

“You haven’t seen Grif’s cooking skills then.”

“Alright. We’re over this shit.” The roof had finally stopped shaking and slowly the Blues dared to leave their cover. “This idea – fucking stupid. I don’t know why this surprised me.”

Grif brushed some dust off himself, almost causing Simmons to fall over as he was pulled along. “C’mon. It was either Agent Double-O Donut-“

“ _Doonut_.”

“-or Officer Hot-Pants.”

Tucker and Church slowly turned their heads to stare at each other. Eventually, it was Tucker who dared to ask, “Okay, who’s Officer Hot-Pants?”

“What, he’s not in one of your magazines?”

“Donut is Officer Hot-Pants whenever we roleplay court,” Simmons explained, almost sounding sad.

Church held up a hand, stopped himself, but then decided to speak anyway, “See, I have so many questions about what the fuck is going on at your base and I don’t really think I dare to know the answer to any of them.”

“Hiiiii, guys!”

They all turned around to see Donut in the doorway. He had his pistol raised, aimed at the Blues.

“Oh, hey, Donut,” Grif said lazily, not even bothering to sound surprised.

Donut huffed, straightened up before saying in a dramatic tone, “I am Agent Double-O Donut and you are going to let me friends go!”

He was still aiming at Tucker and Church who froze, unsure of just what to do. The Blues leaned their heads together to whisper, “So… Are we going to shoot back?”

“Dude, what the fuck?! Who could ever shoot Donut?”

And that was a very good question. Who could ever bring himself to shoot the loveable, pink soldier? One of life’s great mysteries, truly.

“Then what do we do?” When Tucker only shrugged as an answer, Church eventually cleared his throat to say, “This is not what it look like.”

“Yes, it is,” Grif cut in. “You kidnapped us and now Donut saved us. Woop. Big hero and all that. Let’s go home.”

Tucker suddenly raised his head, hit by an idea. “Actually…” he said smugly. “Happy birthday, Donut.”

“Aw, thank you guys! Is this some weird surprise party?”

“Yes.”

“No fucking way,” Church tried to cut his teammate off.

However, Tucker continued undisturbed, “It will take place in Red Base. Grif and Simmons were just here to get ready.”

“And you say I spend too much time dressing up.” Donut put his hands on his hips, sounding amused. “I did not know you came to the Blues for fashion advice! You could have asked me!”

“Oh, they were just here for the handcuffs,” Tucker replied casually, and Simmons, picking up on what was happening, shot him a glare.

Donut clasped his hands together in excitement. “Is this going where I think it’s going…”

Church, aware of where Tucker was taking this, decided to come with the final blow. “I hear there’s a trial at Red Base. Here, take your prisoners.” He paused before adding, “Think of it as a gift.”

“Wait, no, you can’t do that!” Simmons would have fled, had he not been chained to Grif. “We’re innocent!”

“Are you even helping right now?” Grif snarled at his teammate who was desperately tugging his wrist.

Donut was practically beaming by this point. “Sounds like somebody needs a bailiff!”

“ _NO!_ ”

“Just let me get my uniform!”

“You will pay for this, Blues. You will all pay!”

“Dude, someone’s dignity had to go,” Tucker calmly told Grif. “He’s your teammate.”

“Officer Hot-Pants is one his way and he’s heard some boys have been naughty!”

“ _Oh god_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Team up".


	6. Our Colors in the Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun never sets in Blood Gulch, not even today.

“Grif, where are we going?” Simmons called out to the orange soldier who was, surprisingly, for once taking the lead. Normally none of them would dare to climb the canyon walls but for some reason Grif had insisted to drag Simmons up a steep ledge.

Without even looking over his shoulder, Grif called out, “The Vegas Quadrant.”

“ _Grif_.” The path was narrow and Simmons kept stumbling over small rocks in his way. He would rather not fall down, especially not now with the distance they had created between themselves and the ground.

“Just kidding,” Grif snorted and turned around slightly to send him a glance. They had left their armor back in the base so Simmons was fully able to see his slightly raised eyebrow. “What, you thought I had a spaceship hidden up here?”

“What do you have hidden up here?” Simmons asked, eyes narrowing.

“Who says I’m hiding anything?”

“’cause we’re climbing the canyon wall.” Simmons replied dryly since he was only mentioning clearly obvious facts. “You wouldn’t go through that much exercise without a reward waiting at the end.”

Grif continued to walk up the ledge with practiced ease. He had obviously been heading this way before. “Huh,” he said, uninterested.

The ledge rounded slightly, and Simmons kept a hand on the canyon wall, just in case. “See, you’re not even denying it. What the fuck are you planning, Grif?”

To Simmons’ horror, Grif decided to speed up, his irritation showing in his quick pace. Grif would rarely hurry up anything. “Why are you so fucking nervous?”

“Sarge wants us to be back for the evening patrol,” Simmons replied firmly. It was a stupid argument – they had all missed patrols before (mainly Grif though sometimes he had managed to drag Simmons into trouble) but today was special. Simmons would rather not miss this patrol – he would probably regret it later.

“Dude, by tomorrow he won’t be able to yell at us anymore. ‘sides, I don’t really think the Blues are up to anything today.”

“They’re packing,” Simmons concluded. Of course they were. They were all leaving, well except Sister and Sarge and technically Lopez, and they had to get ready for the morning. Their time-limit crept up on him again, and he hunched over slightly, urgency in his voice, “We should be packing. Grif, we have to go down to pack.”

Grif’s raised hands were slowly lowered towards the ground, gesturing for Simmons to calm down. “Just trust me here, okay?”

Simmons bit his lip. He had not stopped walking yet and he could not bring himself to do so. “Last time you said that, the Blues ended up stealing all out ammunition.”

“No ammunition involved in this,” Grif swore. The tone in his voice revealed he was telling the truth.

That was only somewhat comforting. “So what _is_ involved in this?” Simmons asked tentatively, walking a bit faster to catch up with his teammate.

“Just follow me,” Grif said as unhelpful as ever.

Simmons huffed but did as told. They were so high up now that he felt dizzy whenever he looked down. If Grif had been here on his own before it was a miracle he had not killed himself by accident.

Finally they stopped at the end up the ledge, on a piece of the cliff that protruded like a small platform. Rather convenient, a nice place to halt after all that walking.

Not that there was much here to be impressed by. Simmons walked to the edge, glancing at the canyon below them.

“The base?” he asked, dumbfounded. “We walked all this way to see the base?”

He looked over his shoulder to see Grif cross his arms. “No.” He sounded a bit disappointed, face slightly sullen.

“Okay. What am I not seeing?”

“This.” Grif stepped aside to gesture towards the ground, towards a boulder that was bathed in the sunlight.

“A rock,” Simmons said dryly, not even the slightest bit impressed. He raised his glance to stare at his teammate who looked oddly proud.  “We came here to see a rock?”

“This is my napping spot,” Grif explained, a heavy tone to his voice that revealed this was a big deal.

It took some seconds before Simmons understood. Grif had numerous napping spots– and Simmons knew most of them by now. He was, after all, the one with the duty to get the orange solider out of bed. But this had to be _the_ napping spot, the one that Simmons had never managed to find.

“This… All the times I looked for you everywhere… You were here?!”

“Yeah.” Grif shifted slightly. The corners of his mouth were raised upwards. “Pretty fun seeing you run around like some confused ant.”

The hours Simmons had spent looking _everywhere_ for his teammate… “You’re an asshole,” he barked.

Grif huffed in amusement before reaching down behind the boulder to fetch a worn, orange blanket and a package of Oreos he had hidden there. Spreading the fabric over the rock, he tried to make the spot more comfortable. He sat down, back against the boulder, placing himself so the sun was hitting his face.

“C’mon.” He patted the ground next to him. “I’m sharing my napping spot with you. At least try to look grateful.”

Simmons could not help but hesitate, turning his head so he was looking down at the base again. “You’re only showing me it because it’s too late for me to tell Sarge.”

“I see that your logic is still working,” Grif snorted. “Last chance, Simmons, in more ways than one.”

With a sigh, Simmons kneeled down to place himself next to Grif. Their shoulders were almost touching as they both tried to claim their bit of the sunlight. The cyborg had barely closed his eyes before he heard rustling and when he opened them again an Oreo was being hold in front of his face.

“Not saving them for the flight?” Simmons asked after having accepted the cookie.

Grif swallowed. “Nah, I have more snacks.”

About a minute later, when Simmons had managed to eat the way too sweet cookie, he decided to break the silence. “So… You were up here every day?”

Grif shook his head, crumbles flying off his chin. “Too much work. I could usually get ten minutes behind the locker before any of you found me. But if I really needed a break from Sarge, from the whole pretend-to-be-an-actual-army-thing… It was worth the walk.”

Simmons stared straight ahead. There was a splotch of red near the base. Probably Sarge out looking for them. “If you needed a break from me?” he asked, trying to sound casual about it. Even added a careless shrug.

Grif hesitated, turning his head to stare at him. Simmons tried not to flinch under the scrutiny. “I’m sharing the spot with you now,” he finally said.

Simmons nodded, swallowing. “It’s a good spot.”

“Of course it is.” Grif raised his head in pride. “I found it. Never got caught.”

“I mean the view.” Simmons held out a hand, gesturing towards the canyon below them. It seemed oddly quiet today, even peaceful in the ever-lasting daylight. “It’s nice.”

“It’s Blood Gulch,” Grif replied with a shrug.

“Yeah.”

The red color disappeared inside the base again. The place almost seemed abandoned with no gunshots echoing against the canyon wall, no yelling disturbing the peace. Simmons wondered if this was how Blood Gulch would be from now on.

“Wonder if Rat’s Nest has any good napping spots,” Grif suddenly said. He had closed his eyes, as if preparing himself to nap.

“I’m sure you’ll find some,” Simmons replied dryly. He knew Grif well enough to be sure that he would _always_ find a place to nap. No matter where this crazy life would take them.

“Won’t be as good as this one.”

Then they both fell quiet. Grif’s eyes remained closed but Simmons continued to stare down into the canyon that had been his home for years. The sun was comforting warm against their skin. Grif had picked a good spot.

Simmons exhaled and looked up at the blue sky. For a moment he wished that, for once, the sun would set in Blood Gulch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "set in Blood Gulch".


	7. Smoke Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grif has been given a Lieutenant who doesn’t smoke.

“You got a lighter?” Grif has asked and, honestly, he had expected Bitters to hand him one immediately.

But the young soldier briefly shook his head before returning his stare upon the calm scene ahead of them. The last people were heading out of the mess hall. No one seemed to be in a hurry. Some were limping, having ditched their armors in order to wear bandages.

This morning’s battle had been harsher than normally: Grif had learned that much at the meeting Kimball had just held. The Captains had left in a somber mood. Simmons had hurried up to check on his team that had experienced some of the heavier loses today. Gold Team had been luckier.

Grif had reminded himself of that as he walked outside. The evening air was fresh against his skin as he pulled off his helmet. Kimball’s office was placed in one of the more high floors, allowing Grif to look down from the cliff ledge that served as a balcony.

He had been leaning against the railing before he even noticed Bitters. The Lieutenant had been resting against the wall, arms crossed. He was not wearing his helmet but his expression was blank nonetheless as he stared at his Captain.

“You don’t smoke?” Grif was surprised, really. He had never been a foolish believer of the whole ‘cool kids smoke’ hype that had appeared during his years in high school but Bitters had honestly seemed like the guy who relaxed with a cigarette between his lips. Grif could relate.

Bitters was still staring straight ahead. “Nope.”

“Huh.” Grif slowly put his pack of cigarettes back into his pocket. He then frowned. “…You asked for a smoke break on the last mission.”

The Lieutenant’s expression did not change. “Yeah?”

“You know, I can respect that, Bitters.” Grif nodded slightly as he thought about it. It was a good plan, truly, and he almost felt impressed. Of course the only reason why he had not thought of it himself was because he was physically unable to actually fulfill the plan, being a smoker and all that. “I am forever cut off from taking fake smoke breaks. That’s more frustrating than it should be.”

Bitters raised an eyebrow and suggested, “Fake toilet breaks?”

“I like the way you think, Bitters.”

The last of the evening sun was hitting their faces. Grif closed his eyes to enjoy it. He had not asked why his Lieutenant was out here – mainly ‘cause a guy needed his privacy, and it was pretty obvious anyway.

Grif had not known his soldiers for a very long time, and honestly, he wasn’t like Donut who would try to small-talk with them. Not like Bitters would start a conversation on his own, unless it began with a snarky comment.

But he had spent enough time with his Lieutenant to notice the small frown, the heavy wrinkle that drew his eyebrows closer.

“Humor me, Bitters,” he said, breaking the silence. Grif silently crossed his fingers that Bitters was not going to bring up dead teammates because he was seriously not in the mood to do that. Ever. But to distract from certain thoughts by talking about literally anything else – Grif was a master. The times he had pulled Simmons out of his own thoughts by asking random questions were too many to be counted.

For a brief second Bitters actually looked surprised. Then his expression fell thoughtful until he finally spoke, “Uhm, you play a tiny guitar?”

“Ukulele,” Grif corrected unconsciously. He tilted his head: of all things Bitters could bring up, this was unexpected. “Should I scream _stalker_ now or-“

“Jensen told me,” Bitters said and further explained, “Her Captain told her.”

Grif was not quite sure why the cyborg had wanted to share that information, if not to mock him, but he intended to find out. “Stuff Simmons should keep in his diaries,” he huffed.

Bitters shrugged. “Said it was your only talent.”

“Some praise.” Grif had to let out a snort. “He hasn’t even heard my play.”

“So you do play a tiny guitar?”

“I played ukulele back when I had one.” Grif narrowed his eyes slightly, taking in his Lieutenant’s surprised tone and the way one corner of his mouth was raised slightly upwards. “You think that is funny, Bitters?”

The soldier briefly met his glance before his eyes bounced back to focus on the nearly empty yard beneath them. “It’s cool, I guess.”

“You play anything?” Grif asked, wishing Simmons could stop stealing his lighters. A lit cigarette in his mouth right now was something he desired.

“Poker.”

Grif raised an eyebrow, remembering the days back in Blood Gulch where the Reds and Blues had come together to play. One of the less awful things about that canyon. “You guys have any poker nights here?”

Bitters narrowed his eyes in obvious suspicion. With his shoulders slightly raised, he asked, “…Why?”

“What, you think I’d rat you out to Kimball?” Grif snorted loudly at the thought. “Nah, I’m just gonna steal your money.”

Now it was the Lieutenant’s turn to snort. “Right.”

“You think I can’t beat you rookies?”

Bitters tilted his head, causing his dirty blond fringe to fall into his eyes. “Smith’s got a mean pokerface. Palomo is just flat out lucky. Jensen got some kind of strategy none of us can see through.”

He could almost imagine it; the young soldiers gathering after another tough, bloody day, finding comfort in the game. Reminded Grif of days back in Basic. He wouldn’t mind relive such memories, especially not if he could win some extra MRE’s. “So I take it you’re short on cash with such friends.”

“Nah. I know how to play a hand.”

Grif grinned as well. “We’ll see.” Simmons would be pissed to know that Grif was ready to make bets with their troops but, well, Simmons would not have to know. Suddenly noticing how Bitters was still staring at him, the edges of a frown still visible on his forehead, Grif asked, “Okay, what? You look like Simmons when I got something stuck between my teeth.”

Bitters only hesitated for a short moment. His eyes seemed genuinely curious when he asked, “Why did _you_ join the army?”

It was a question Grif had been asked many times before. A question he knew how to answer as briefly as possible. Not much to tell, actually.

“You know about my fucking ukulele but not that sob story?” Grif huffed, fingers itching to hold a lit cigarette. “Got drafted.”

Bitters gave him a sort nod. “Makes sense.”

“So no choice there,” Grif breathed out, stretching out his arms. The last soldiers seemed to have disappeared from the yard beneath them.

Bitters looked up, towards the sun that is disappearing in the distance. “Yeah… Me neither.”

And Grif understood. All these young soldiers, all these untrained soldiers, all these hopeless soldiers who still carried around weapons to protect their lives. Not much of a choice there. Grif had thought the one-man draft had been the cruelest thing but to be honest the unofficial thousand-men draft here on Chorus seemed worse.

“I’d offer a cigarette but we still got no fucking lighter.”

Bitters looked at him again, an unreadable glance in his eyes. “…Jensen mentioned something about a flamethrower project earlier.”

“Huh.” Grif nodded as he smile grew. “Could work.” He glanced at his young Lieutenant. “Ever smoked before?”

“Nope,” Bitters answered truthfully. He did not sound embarrassed. A bit amused, if anything.

Grif thought about just how mad Simmons would be when he found out Grif was training his Lieutenant to spend smoke breaks together. Bitters let go of the railing. Grif grinned. “Gonna be fun then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Set on Chorus".


	8. Ammunition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Gold(ORANGE!!) Team was not the perfect squad for this mission.

“Bitters, hand me the ammo.” Grif did not turn his head to stare at his Lieutenant. Instead he peeked slightly over the rock they were hiding behind, eyeing the enemy soldier shooting at them for a brief second before he had to dive behind cover.

“Uhm…” The Lieutenant rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t bring any.”

Grif froze, lowering himself closer to the ground as bullets sailed over their heads. He tried to glare through his visor. “Still waiting for the punchline, Bitters.”

The mission had been simple enough: let the other teams do the hard work and distract the enemy base while Grif and his men would infiltrate the empty place and secure the needed supplies with no problem.

But of course there had been a problem.

Grif had ditched Matthews earlier on the path (“Oh yes, sir”, “Of course, sir!” and “Do you want my help, sir?” had grown annoying rather quickly), telling him to stay _right there and don’t move_ so he could look out for enemy soldiers.

But apparently Matthews sucked at his job (or maybe he was dead. Would be just typical) because before Grif and Bitters had even reached the base, someone had begun to shoot at them.

A single enemy soldier had them pinned down. It would not be that big of a problem…

…had they not just run out of ammo.

“Not a joke,” Bitters replied with a shrug. He was oddly calm, given the situation. He then tilted his head. “I thought you were in charge of the ammunition, _sir_.” Grif frowned at that smug use of his title in the end. Bitters did not seem remorseful. “Being a Captain and all.”

“Why would I bring any extra ammunition if I had already told you to do it?” Grif snapped. He was not really _mad_ at his Lieutenant (forgetting ammo was something that could happen to anyone, obviously) but he would rather not die today. Or any other day, really.

“Because I forget?”  Bitters suggested with a shrug.

Grif cursed under his breath. With no other options left, he quickly reached out to grab some nearby sticks, pulling them free from the thick foliage before having the pull his arm back before bullets could pierce through it.

“Why are you handing me a stick?” Bitters asked, looking at the newfound weapon, dumbfounded.

“Would you rather face the enemy without a stick?”

“If I had bullets to my rifle – then yes.”

Grif shoved the stick into his hands. “Too fucking bad you didn’t bring any ammunition then.”

The asshole was still wasting his bullets against the rock, and Grif did not feel particular ready to leave his cover. Of course one of them had to serve as a distraction while the other one rushed him with the stick. And being a Captain, Grif knew that he probably was supposed to be the one to sacrifice himself – as unpleasant as that idea was…

Then a surprise squeal rang out.

And it was a familiar squeal.

Bitters hung his head slightly to mutter, “Aw, shit.”

Grif cursed again. So Matthews was obviously dead. Well shit. But he and Bitters were about to die as well so no one would really be able to blame Grif for anything.

A couple of more gunshots. Then another squeal.

Grif and Bitters raised their heads slightly.

“I killed him! Did you see that?!” Matthews called out, more surprised than proud. When they gingerly looked over their rock, they could see the Private standing over a dead Fed.

“No,” Bitters replied flatly, straightening out his back.

“I saved you!” Matthews was practically beaming as he looked at Grif. “Are you proud of me, sir?”

“I am not disappointed by the fact that I’m still alive.“ Grif brushed some dust off his knees, then abandoned his stick to hold his empty rifle again. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“But… aren’t we supposed to be securing the supplies, sir?” Matthews kept glancing at the base down the hill. It was not completely empty now: Grif caught glances of white-armored soldiers.

“With one gun?” Bitters snored.

“Let’s be democratic about this,” Grif declared, earning the full attention of both of his men.  “Raise your hand if you want to die today. No? Anyone? Great. Time to fucking retreat then.”

* * *

 Grif held up his hands, signaling that what he was about to say was very important. While nodding slowly, he revealed, “Ambush.” Kimball looked very unimpressed on the other side of the desk. It was not the first time Grif had been called to her office and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the last. In order to gain support, he tilted his head towards the soldier sitting to the left of him. “Isn’t that right, Bitters?”

“Sure.”

Grif could have used a bit more enthusiasm, so he turned his gaze upon Kimball again and added, "Fifty of them. With machine guns.”

“Truly?” It almost sounded like Kimball let out a snort. “Lieutenant Bitters, can you confirm this?”

Bitters froze slightly. “We were… pretty outnumbered, I guess.”

Matthews, sitting next to the Lieutenant, cut in with an excited voice, “And the pistols did look like machine guns. I mean, from a certain angle…” Grif bit his lip: he should have figured that Matthews did not catch the whole lying-to-your-General-strategy.

He could almost sense Kimball raise an eyebrow under her visor. But all she said was, “At least Red Team managed to secure the packages. And none of our Teams experienced any losses today.”

Grif soundlessly let out a breath of relief. “What did I say? Retreat - saving lives every day.”

“It was an excellent strategy, sir,” Matthews praised while nodding. He then turned his head, spotting another authority figure he could suck up to. “We promise to bring ammo the next time, General Kimball.”

Bitters face-palmed. Grif considered how Matthews could be so remarkably talented that he was able to suck up, snitch and disappointed Grif in one single sentence.

“I see.” Kimball folded her hands, staring at Grif again.

“But obviously still a good day for Orange Team,” Grif cut in quickly with a fake excited voice. “Let’s celebrate by eating dinner.”

“Captain Simmons warned me this could happen,” Kimball revealed. She actually sounded amused.

“Yeah…” Grif rubbed the back of his neck. “You live and learn, right?”

“Obviously.” Yep, she was most definitely amused by the situation.

Grif left his chair, gesturing for his soldiers to do the same. Bitters actually had to grab Matthews’ elbow to drag him out of the office.

As Grif stood in the doorway, Kimball suddenly called out, “Grif?” He turned around. “Here.”

She threw something at him, and Grif somehow managed to catch it. Turning it over in his palm, he realized it was a small package of bullets. “Thanks,” he huffed.

The moment he stepped outside the office, he threw it at Bitters.

Bitters immediately threw it at Matthews.

Matthews hugged it close to his chest.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, voice wavering with pride. Matthews was looking at Grif as if his Captain had intended to hand him this ‘prize’ from the beginning. “I will save it for a special occasion.”

“Like what?” Bitters snorted. “We’re getting shot at every day.”

“Exactly!” Matthews replied cheerfully. There was, surprisingly, a tiny hint of smugness in his voice. “And that increases my chances of you needing me to save you again.”

“Oh shut up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Time for a Rescue"


	9. Turn Off the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons was like that annoying, little, red light on a TV, refusing to let darkness fully embrace their bedroom.

Grif knew that Simmons often had nightmares. The nerd would also cry in his sleep. Sometimes he would cry when he was awake. Sharing sleeping quarters with Simmons meant a lot of crying was involved. And shattered bathroom mirrors. That was a problem as well.

In the first couple of months Grif wondered whether Simmons had a fear of the dark and that was why he could sometimes hear him sniffing in the other side of the room.

Then Simmons began to open up a little, a few comments about his father every once in a while, a few accidental revelation about his tragic childhood here and there. The cyborg would never spill everything but the problem became clear to Grif after a while.

Simmons had a lot of bad memories.

And, funnily enough, years spent in the army only seemed to add to that amount.

Grif understood. His time in the colony, before Blood Gulch and all the true weirdness had appeared, well, it had given him rather unpleasant memories of bodies and blood and death and silence and that kind of stuff. Not like it kept him up at night or anything, since nothing could ever truly keep Grif away from his beloved sleep, but still… Bad stuff.

Simmons had seen a lot of bad shit by now, if you focused on his near-death experiences of his Red comrades. First Donut’s head had exploded, then Sarge had gotten shot in the head, then the whole tank accident that had been rather grim, apparently. Grif remembered nothing of it.

And then came this Agent Washington who had felt like shooting Lopez and Donut in front of Simmons. Dickhead.

Grif could hear Simmons gasp as he woke up from the nightmare. It was followed by the sound of the cyborg turning over in his bed, muttering a small curse under his breath.

Holding his breath, Grif quietly waited for the muffled crying to begin. When it didn’t, he opened one eye to glance at the bed in the other side of the room. Simmons was awake, his cyborg eye glowing dimly in the darkness like that annoying, little, red light on a TV.

It never turned off. Grif waited for the cyborg to close his eyes but the red light kept breaking the darkness.

“Okay, why the fuck aren’t you sleeping?”

He had expected Simmons to jump a bit when it was revealed Grif was awake as well, but instead the cyborg calmly spat, “Why the fuck aren’t _you_ sleeping?”

Good question. Grif had not thought of it before and now he had to come up with an excuse. “We’ll, I’m the one who fell off a cliff. Probably the adrenalin or some shit. What’s your excuse?”

“You fell off a cliff,” Simmons replied flatly.

It took some seconds before Grif realized the cyborg had not repeated his excuse to mock him but that they did in fact share the same reason to be awake. It was a bit… unexpected. That near-death scene had not involved blood or actual death like the other stuff Simmons had witnessed. Simmons had not even brought it up before but had spent the rest of the day avoiding Grif.

Then again: this was Simmons and Simmons could cry about anything.

“Oops,” Grif said but did not really manage to sound remorseful.

“Fucking idiot,” Simmons muttered back. He was still staring at him. “Could you try not to almost-die all the time? You already forced me to give up my heart – don’t give me a fucking heart-attack then.”

Grif rolled his eyes. “I’ll try not to fall off a cliff again.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

The red light only disappeared briefly whenever Simmons blinked. Then it was back to keep Grif from sleeping.

“Simmons, go the fuck to sleep.”

“Yeah…” he said with a defeated sigh. The cyborg rolled over but Grif could still see the faint red light against the metal wall. For fuck’s sake.

At least he had not gone to the bathroom to break their new mirror. But if this kept up, Grif was afraid he was going to jinx it.

It occurred to Grif that he was still awake as well. There was this weird knot in his stomach that apparently was not hunger – at least the extra MRE had not helped. It was a worse feeling, almost cold, and it caused Grif to frown. Maybe Simmons suffered from the same weird stomach feeling.

Note to self: don’t fall of cliffs. Apparently it fucks up your sleeping routine.

“Fuck it,” Grif finally said, supporting himself with his palm to sit up. “Scoot over.”

“What?” The frown could be heard in Simmons’ voice.

Grabbing his own blanket, Grif marched to the other bed and before the nerd could protest, he laid down. Simmons had to roll over in order not to get crushed under the Hawaiian’s weight. “What the fuck, Grif?”

Grif pulled his own blanket over the two of them, letting out a satisfied huff.  “It’s fucking cold.”

He could feel the cold touch of the cyborg parts against his skin. Simmons was frozen, not daring to move, and in the end Grif grabbed his wrist and dragged him closer so their bodies were pressed against each other.

Simmons’ flesh hand was on top of Grif’s chest and he could sense the cyborg feel his heartbeat. “Sleep, nerd.”

“You’re an asshole,” Simmons said as he shifted, trying to get in a comfortable position against Grif’s body. He ended up with his face pressed against Grif’s dark hair. For once he did not complain about how messy it was.

“You know I am.” Grif pulled the blankets closer around them, making sure the two of them were covered. The nights could be fairly cold though he was sure neither of them would be freezing tonight. Simmons inhaled deeply.

Grif could see nothing with his face in a comfortable position against Simmons’ neck but he was sure the cyborg closed his eyes in less than a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Bedsharing".


	10. Bulletproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Simmons tries to seduce Grif.

“It was an accident,” Simmons declared firmly after picking up an antiseptic wipe.

Grif’s reddened back was turned towards him. The Hawaiian grudgingly rested his face in his palms as he waited for the cyborg to begin. “Suuuuure,” he spat, closing his eyes as he tried to ready himself for the sharp pain.

“He didn’t mean to shoot you,” Simmons told him again. He took in the damage: the shotgun shell had not truly managed to break through the armor so at least he did not have any real wound to deal with. But the skin underneath the armor had been bruised; it was all angrily red and in some places parts of the skin had been slightly ripped off, resulting in some blood. Not enough to make Simmons feel nauseous but it needed to be disinfected.

“Which is why he aimed at my back and pulled the trigger,” Grif said sarcastically. His muscles were tense. “Just get it over with, Simmons.”

“It’s not that bad,” the cyborg tried to comfort him. He kept the wipe hovering above the bruised skin. “And it’s not like you haven’t tried it before.”

“Yeah, Sarge has a nasty habit of shooting me,” he grumbled. “Which is why I know this stings like hell.”

“Brace yourself for it then,” Simmons said and wiped the scrape.

Grif’s response was immediate. “ _Fucking shit_!” He launched himself forward, scrambling towards the other end of their shared bedroom.

“Grif!” Simmons sounded like he was scolding him as he left the bed to follow his teammate. It almost looked like he was about to drag him back by the elbow.

The Hawaiian sat scowling on the floor, sending the cyborg a glance with narrowed eyes. “It _hurts_.”

“Of course it does, dipshit. But it’ll hurt worse if it gets infected. So you either let me do this now or I’ll send Doctor Grey after your ass.”

“She doesn’t want my ass,” Grif muttered sourly but slowly rose from the floor, “She wants Sarge’s.”

Simmons closed his eyes. “Thank you for that image.”

“Who knows what the two of them were doing on that Fed base before we found them…” Grif continued to grumble as he gingerly sat down on the bed again. It creaked under his weight. He watched in suspicion how Simmons prepared another wipe. “I’m just saying that here we – some of us, especially you – were worried ‘bout them, and we fucking fought and rescued them, and we’re all happy together and all that reunion bullshit – and then Sarge thinks it’s funny to shoot me already? We’ve been in Armonia for like a day? Can’t we wait with killing me until this war is actually over?”

“Well, he has probably missed it.”

“I didn’t fucking sign up to help with Sarge’s trigger-finger abstinences,” Grif grumbled and hunched forward. “Next time tell him to aim at Felix when we find him.”

“You _could_ have tried not to insults Sarge,” Simmons huffed. “It _might_ have decreased your chances of getting hit by a shotgun.”

Grif had closed his eyes again, waiting the fire that would ignite on his back. “Just saying, I certainly didn’t miss _this_ while they were gone.”

“I’m glad they’re back.”

“Oh, I know. You haven’t cried in your sleep for like three days.” Grif pried one eye open. “What the fuck are you waiting for, Simmons? You aren’t really helping with the anticipation.”

“Well, I know you’re just going to freak out again.” Simmons was still clutching the wipe in his hand. “It would be easier if you would just quit all that moaning.”

“Just get it over with.”

Grif braced himself.

And nothing happened.

“Could you hurry it up a bit, Simmons?” he hissed. He was pretty sure the blood was drying on his back at this point. All he wanted was to get through this so he could take a well-deserved nap. Getting shot was hard work. “I’m asking you to clean the scrapes, not fucking kiss it better.”

Simmons was quiet for a moment, hand still hovering above his back, but then he asked very quietly, “…do you want me to do that?”

Grif choked on air; something he wasn’t even sure was physically possible. He then turned around so quickly that the motion pulled his sore skin; he winched. “Are you fucking serious?!” Grif gasped, staring into Simmons’ very red face.

“No. Yes. I… depends?” the cyborg sputtered. In his bewilderment he accidently dropped the swipe on the floor.

Grif blinked. The corners of his mouth were lifted upwards as he smugly asked, “Simmons, are you trying to seduce me?”

“ _No_.”

“But you’re asking me if I want you to kiss it better?”

“…yes?” Simmons scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting towards the floor. “It’s just, well, you know…”

“I don’t,” Grif huffed. “What, is my back worse off than you told me? Am I dying? Am I fucking dying, Simmons?! Are we back at that ‘confessions-before-death-by-firing-squad-shit’ again?”

The cyborg’s cheeks were flaming at this point. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine. Am I dying or…?”

“No. I mean, not _now_ but…”

“Shit, you give the best reassurances, Simmons.” Grif rolled his eyes, sticking his own face closer to Simmons’ who pulled away but only slightly. “So I’m not dying at the moment. Why are you suddenly all about making out?”

The cyborg looked like he might be about to flee from the room at any moment but Grif sat at the edge of the bed, preventing him from escaping. With no other options, Simmons looked at his hands and thickly revealed, “Well, we’re all together now but… Who knows how long it’ll stay this time? I mean, shit happens…”

Grif nodded. “Shit does have a nasty habit of happening, yes.”

“And you have a stupid habit of getting shot,” Simmons reminded him dryly. “So I thought… Maybe you wanted it? Now?”

“Before unspecified shit happens?”

“Yeah… While we can… If you want.”

Grif shifted, crossing his arms. He tried to gain eye-contact but Simmons kept looking away. “So you’re asking _me_ if I want _you_ to fucking kiss it better?”

“You don’t have to be an ass about it,” the cyborg muttered, one hand buried in Grif’s worn blanket.

Grif folded his hands. “Let’s suppose I say yes. You’d do it?”

“ _Grif_ -“

“Like, with no requirements? Not even me taking a bath?”

Simmons slowly looked up. “Well, I’d _prefer_ -“

“Do we specify which part needs to be kissed better? ‘cause I know you have a thing for kissing ass-“

“That’s it!” the cyborg exclaimed, voice breaking slightly. He stood up, throwing his arms up as well. “This is a joke. Obviously. And I’m the punchline.”

Before he could leave, however, Grif reached out to grab his wrist. “Let’s say I bit my lip. You still up for it?”

Simmons stared at him. Color was once again returning to his cheeks – the color red, more specifically. “You done being an ass?”

“For the moment. You could shut me up – _oomph._ ”

And so Simmons did. He slammed his lips against Grif’s, teeth clanking inelegantly together, tongues searching for each other.

Grif fell over, dragging Simmons with him, and they landed on top of the bed, limbs tangled together. The Hawaiian first pulled back when one of Simmons’ hands returned a hug by pulling him closer, accidently brushing against some of his scrapes.

“Ow,” he said, ending the kiss with a winch.

“Sorry.”

Grif smirked, looking straight into Simmmons’ eyes. “Kiss it better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "First Kiss".


	11. Old School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons wore braces back in high school.

Whenever Simmons spoke to his team the words seemed to stumble out of his mouth. Most of them only managed to create half-finished sentences that broke whenever his voice turned too high-pitched. Chorus reminded him of high school – horrible flashbacks of failed school presentations and awkward flirting.

But now, somehow, he had been introduced as one of “the popular kids” with a crowd of girls following him around.

Definitely a high school vibe.

And high school was not one of Simmons’ fondest memories.

“So, uh, we try to ambush them this time. From behind. Not like Donut’s behind – shit, no, not that, I did not say _Donut’s behind_ , I meant…” He trailed off, eyes darting around madly behind his visor that he pretended was focused on the bunch of papers he was holding.

“We attack them from behind the base,” Jensen suggested carefully, her lisp very visible in the last word. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

“I, uh, yes. Thank you, Jensen,” he said, collecting himself and his papers. The training session went as most of their training sessions went – failure – but that could not all be blamed on Simmons’ horrible communication skills.

Simmons realized that “Thank you, Jensen” had become one of the only sentences he could say without a stutter.

Jensen might be less scary than his other girls, and she may have been chosen because she was the one girl Tucker would never be bow-chicka-bow-wow-ing about, but her admiration for her Captain was more terrifying than a hot, volleyball-playing Lieutenant could ever be.

Their common interests calmed Simmons.

The first and most obvious trait was their horrible communication skills – Simmons would stutter and his voice would break, Jensen would lisp and choke on her spit.

There were improvements, definitely, and Jensen seemed to get her salvia-problem under control.

And while Simmons had expected… Of course he would never be the guy to stereotype but Jensen did remind him of those female chess-players from his high school, the ones the other girls would mock and call ‘nerd’.

He was trying to revive one of the Feds’ old terminals when his Lieutenant walked up on him, looked over his shoulder, and asked him what he was doing.

“Oh.” Simmons let out a surprised sound and felt heat rush to his cheeks: it was not often that people would ask further into his interest. “I’m just trying to bring this thing back to life. Codes and such. You know… Nerdy things,” he said, trailing off so he could make it briefly because people always preferred the short version.

But Jensen leaned closer to the screen. “So you are recoding the system?” Her voice was curious but confirmed that she knew a bit about tech as well.

Simmons blinked while nodding. “And filling out some missing data.” When Jensen’s attention remained just as focused as before, he continued with a long explanation, arms creating gestures, and his voice grew and more confident with each word.

He did not even halt when Grif appeared from somewhere, screaming “ _Nerd!”_ because that was a just a part of their routine by now.

* * *

 Simmons was glad to observe the growing friendship between the Lieutenants, glad to see that Jensen was making friend, and somewhat glad to see Palomo’s awkward flirting. The boy was a catastrophe but at least his praise would strengthen Jensen’s confidence.

The Captain had to cross his arms in pride and send Grif a smug look when they overheard a heated argument between the Lieutenants that ended with Jensen exclaiming: “And you know smoking isn’t good for you, Antoine!”

And Simmons saw Grif looking just as proud when Bitters proceeded to flip her off.

* * *

 Then of course that were Jensen’s infamous driving skills.

Simmons had witnessed plenty of them and had heard of even more. While he tried his best to keep Jensen away from the steering wheel, it just seemed like there was magnetic attraction between the Lieutenant and car accidents.

The Captain stepped inside the motor pool to witness two privates hurrying out of there – one of them carrying the other who seemed to have injured his leg. Jensen was trying to follow them, trying to get close enough to help but was waved off every time. “I’m so sorry! I promise I’ll be more careful in the future and-“

“You _shaid_ that _lasht_ time,” one of the Privates spat, mimicking the lisp. “ _Doeshn’t sheem_ like your _promish ish_ worth _musch_.”

Jensen halted, her outstretched arm falling limply to her side. She was still looking at the ground when Simmons placed herself next to her. He had been sure not to greet the Privates as they limped past him.

“I’m a horrible driver,” he admitted, causing her to look up.

“Really?” she sniffed, lifting her helmet slightly so she could reach in and wipe her eye.

“Yeah…” Simmons sighed. “That’s why Grif is always the driver. Not that he’s a good driver either – it’s a wonder he hasn’t gotten us killed yet. Bet he never even read the laws of traffic. But… He gets us where we need to be, and, well, he’s better than the rest us. Better than me. Definitely me. Don’t tell him that,” he added in the end.

Jensen giggled slightly. “I won’t, sir. But I think he might know that already.”

“Yep, I think that as well.” Simmons wrung his hands slightly, hesitating, but then admitted, “I had braces back in high school.”

The Lieutenant looked up at him, the wonder in her eyes visible through the visor. “I can’t imagine that, sir.”

“Well,” Simmons said, thinking back and letting out a small snort. “Let’s say you wear them much better than I did.”

* * *

 The last time Simmons saw Jensen before the big battle, the Lieutenant was saluting him, announcing proudly that, “It’s been honor to serve you, Captain!”

Simmons barely had time to salute her back before Palomo showed up to grab her by the wrist, dragging her along to find the other Lieutenants.

When Simmons was sniffing loudly less than ten seconds later, he felt Grif’s heavy hand slam against his back in a somewhat comforting gesture. “Wimp.”

“Oh, shut up,” Simmons said, drying his eyes just in time to see Grif and Bitters send each other that weird Gold Team gesture that looked more like giving the finger than an actual salute.


	12. Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons knew surprisingly little about the man he had just given his heart and lungs to. But he should have known that Grif was too useless to take care of himself.

Grif refusing to leave his bed was normally not something to concern yourself with. It was merely a part of the daily routine: so was Simmons yelling at him and eventually Sarge showing up with his shotgun.

In the days after their surgeries, Grif had been allowed to take more naps to rest his sore and heavy limps, allowing the stitches to heal. Simmons could not deny that he had given himself more rest than usually; he was still getting used to his new cyborg parts and the upper part of his leg would quickly begin to hurt after dragging along the metal for enough time.

But they were healing. And they had actually managed to survive the surgeries which was the greatest surprise. Things were going well. Sarge had even begun to plan their retaliation attack because even though the victim had been a dirtbag you could not just run over a Red with a tank without consequences. Well, if you were a Blue you could hardly even look at Red Base without consequences.

But then, inevitably, Grif decided to mess things up.

Simmons tore away the blanket, hoping that would force the Hawaiian to wake up. Grif was not wearing his night-shirt, revealing his sweaty skin. But what stole Simmons’ attention was the redness that stuck to the stiches crawling across his shoulder.

“Oh fuck.”  The words slipped from his mouth before he could stop them.

Grif lazily opened an eye. “What?”

Simmons immediately dropped the blanket. “Nothing.”

Suddenly fully awake, Grif tried to sit up, grimacing. “ _Shit!_ Okay, what is happening?!”

“Nothing,” Simmons said again, slowly backing away from the bed. “I mean-“

“Your ‘ _nothing’_ basically means shit’s on fire, Simmons.” Grif suddenly collapsed to lie back on the bed. He let out a grunt of discomfort when it pulled his stitches. “You’re _the_ worst liar!”

“No, I’m not,” Simmons defended himself in a tone that only seemed to strengthen Grif’s point.

Grif let out another groan, wiping his sweaty forehead and asked, “Okay, who’s dying?”

“No one,” Simmons replied a bit too quickly. Biting his lip, he awkward rubbed the back of his neck. “So… How are you feeling?”

Grif widened his eyes at the question. “Oh my god, I’m dying, aren’t I?”

“Nooo…”

“See! World’s worst liar.” Grif had closed his eyes again. “Oh shit, oh shit.”

“You’re not dying,” Simmons said and pulled away the blanket again to take a closer look. He wrinkled his nose and wished the look had not been that close. There was a reason why he had never dreamt of becoming a doctor. That and the fact that it was still weird to see his own skin on Grif’s body. “Some of your stitches are infected. I bet you were too lazy to keep yourself clean. You’ve probably never been clean in your life,” Simmons blabbered, trying his best not to look at swollen redness. “I’ll try to find some antibiotics. And Donut.”

Grif turned his head to bury his face in the pillow. “Not Nurse Donut.”

“Would you rather have Sarge?” Simmons huffed.

“No.” Grif had opened one eye to stare directly at Simmons. There was a strange look in it that the cyborg could not really identify.

Simmons swallowed. “I’ll try to find something for your fever as well.”

* * *

 Being stuck in Blood Gulch meant limited resources and their chances of getting new ones anytime soon were limited. Simmons found some pills in a medkit in the bottom of one of their drawers. Apparently Grif had also been using the kit as a stash since Simmons found some snack bars in it as well.

If the medicine worked, it worked slowly, and Grif’s fever skyrocketed to the point where even Donut looked nervous and Sarge began to debate how they could manage to dig a grave big enough to fit the body.

Simmons did not like staying inside the bedroom now: it smelled stuffy and sickly inside. Grif was asleep most of the time anyway.

One day Simmons was on the way to the kitchen when he brushed shoulders with Donut who was on his way to change to water he used to cool down Grif’s forehead with. Donut was good at playing nurse. He was good at all those things Simmons would feel awkward doing.

“Have you heard of anybody named Kai?” Donut asked him with a frown. “Grif keeps talking about her. He wants us to send her a message if he… Well, fever makes you think the most foolish things.”

“Who’s Kai? Wait, Grif has a girlfriend?” The idiot had never spoken of a girlfriend before, never even mentioned that name. Simmons has not even thought for a moment that he could have…

Donut looked just as confused as Simmons felt. “I’m not sure. I thought…” His eyes trailed up to stare at Simmons’ face with a tilted head. “Well, you know.”

“No?” Simmons could feel a headache knocking. “Donut, what are you…?”

“I think he might want some company.” Donut’s voice turned light again as he changed subject. “And I wouldn’t mind a small break. I’ve been stuck in the same position for so long my limbs are getting stiff. And maybe you could cheer him up.”

“Donut, I don’t think-“

But the younger soldier had already managed to shove the wet rag into his hands and disappear before the cyborg could protest further.

Grif was asleep most of the time, and his eyes were still closed when Simmons sat down in the chair Donut had placed next to the bed. Simmons leaned closer to get a better look at the patient. The Hawaiian’s black hair was sticking to his forehead, revealing the fever was still raging on. Simmons did not feel like looking at the stitches again but Donut had ensured him he kept them clean and they were looking better. But Donut had always been terribly optimistic.

With Simmons’ face hovering above his own, Grif suddenly opened his eyes. They were still glazed over. “You need to work on your poker-face,” he muttered tiredly.

“You smell,” Simmons said dryly, wrinkling his nose. It was true; Grif was still sweating. More than normally, at least.

“Gonna die from heat,” Grif muttered, closing his eyes again. “Can’t even say it’s the fucking tank. I’m stuck with a lame death.”

“You’re not gonna die.”

“Say it like you mean it, Simmons.”

Simmons folded his hands, trying not to tense up when his flesh fingers touched his new metal ones. “Well,” he said slowly, “it’d be rather shitty of you to die. I did just give you my heart and lungs. You never thanked me, by the way. Not that it surprises me. I know you are an ungrateful bastard but you could at least be polite enough not to make my noble sacrifice useless.”

It took some seconds before Grif replied; Simmons felt his own heart beating faster until the Hawaiian finally opened his eyes. “You’re such sap.”

Simmons exhaled. “Yeah…”

“Did Donut… Look, Command is too fucking useless to bother and if… You gotta tell Kai if…”

There was that name again. Simmons felt his stomach turn into a knot again, for numerous reasons.

Grif’s voice revealed he was drifting off. “Just… fucking mail her… or a fucking pigeon or shit… to Kaikaina Grif.”

Simmons was pretty sure his jaw just dropped to the floor.

“Oh my god. You’re married?!”

Grif let out that deep sigh that usually meant he was a second away from sleep. He just managed to mutter “What the fuck, Simmons?” before he nodded completely off.

Simmons sat alone in the silent room, metal fingers crushing his other hand, and his mind was plagued by worries he did not quite understand.

* * *

 Grif’s fever broke the day afterwards, resulting in a cheerful Donut while Sarge tried his best to look sullen.

Simmons could breathe somewhat normally again in the evening when Grif was feeling well enough to ask for dinner – and Simmons’ leftovers.

Handing them to him with a shrug, Simmons watched him eat. Donut had left the room since Grif and Simmons apparently _needed some space_ \- whatever the fuck that meant.

Grif was quiet because he was stuffing his mouth. Finally, Simmons could not take it any longer and quietly hissed, “You could at least wear the ring.”

Almost choking, Grif had to swallow the food in his mouth before exclaiming, “What?!”

“You’re married. Apparently.” Simmons stared at Grif’s blanket. It had stains all over it. It should be washed soon. “So you should at least wear the ring.”

“I’m… what? We’re… Did you remember something from the Vegas Quadrant that I don’t?”

“ _What_?!”

Grif had widened his eyes, staring at Simmons in wonder. “So we’re not married?”

“Why are you saying we’re married?!”

“I don’t know! You are the one who was talking about marriage in the first place!”

“Because _you_ ’ _re_ married!”

Simmons had never seen such an expression on Grif’s face before. It did not suit him. “No, I’m not.”

“But… but you told me to write to your wife. Kaikaina Grif.”

Grif looked even more out of it than when he had been delirious by fever. “I talked about Kai?”

“You may not remember it,” Simmons muttered. “With the fever and all. But, yeah.”

“Simmons, you know people can share the same last name without being married, right?”

Oh. _Oh_.

“But… But Donut said…” Wait, Donut had actually not _said_ anything, he had… “Okay, Donut _suggested_ that maybe… a girlfriend? So I assumed…”

“Wow,” Grif said, smacking his lips.

“Yeah…” Simmons felt his cheeks burn. However, the situation was uncomfortably awkward but still better than the cold knot that had been in his stomach for the last couple of days.

Grif tilted his head as he stared at Simmons. “Good thing I didn’t kick the bucket, then. Your message would have fucking mindfucked her.”

“Right. Good thing…” Simmons finally dared to look at Grif again. The Hawaiian did not look too upset. If anything, he looked tired. Not the wrong kind of tired that had caused his restless expression while he had been sick, but the normal kind of tired that was pretty much just his face by this point. Idiot was probably gonna nap before long. “You know, all this wouldn’t have happened if you could just take proper care of yourself. You literally nearly died by your own laziness.”

“That’s why I keep you around,” Grif huffed with a smirk. “You have to take better care of me, Simmons.”

“Are you seriously blaming me for this?”

“Sarge says it’s your duty to get me out of bed. According to what Donut said, I was bedridden for almost a week. Have you been fired yet?”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“Glad you got to keep your job, though,” Grif revealed as he closed his eyes. “Base wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Simmons exhaled. “Yeah. You too. Asshole.”


	13. The Philosophy About Toast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has almost become a tradition by now: when Grif and Simmons are about to die, they are dying together and they are bitching about it the entire time.

“Grif! Griiiiif!”

That was the voice Simmons always used to wake up Grif: high-pitched, loud and annoying as fuck.

As always, Grif decided to ignore it. He turned his head to bury his face in his pillow to continue sleeping. “Five more minutes.”

“No. No, no. No more minutes. C’mon, Grif.”

It was about then that Grif noticed that this pillow was hard as fuck and cold and very much not-pillow-like. He raised his face from it. “What the fuck?”

“If you have drooled on me…” Simmons’ voice sounded very strained.

Grif tried to stand up to figure out what the fuck was going on but he had not even straightened out his back completely before he bumped his head against something. He couldn’t see anything but he slowly became aware of the small, crowded space he was stuck in; he couldn’t even move his limps without hitting something else. “Ow?” His head definitely hurt now but for some reason the rest of his body felt sore as well. “Also: _ow_.”

“The ship crashed.” Simmons’ cyborg eye was the only source of light and it only functioned as a dim, red glow. But at least it gave Grif an idea of his own position; he was face to face with Simmons, leaning against his torso, legs tangled together.

He tried to pull away but immediately his back hit something; the wall or a part of the ceiling or debris, just whatever part of the ship that kept them stuck in this little space. Too little light was let in through the cracks for Grif to see shit.

Now when Simmons brought it up, Grif did recall flashing, red lights and that loud as fuck alarm, and there was a faint memory of his soda… He coughed awkwardly. “…Really?”

“Yeah… Don’t know why.” Simmons’ voice turned slightly thin in the end of his sentence. He cleared his throat before continuing, “We must be trapped in a part of the ship.”

“Just great.” Grif’s legs were still pressed against Simmons’ and he could feel the cold touch of the cyborg arm against elbow. “You okay?”

“Well, I’ve had your heavy deadweight pressing down on my torso so that’s probably dented.”

“Any chance your eye can turn full-on flashlight?”

Simmons sputtered angrily before spitting, “Why do you keep insisting on Sarge installing rubbish in me?!”

“I’m just saying that you’re so annoyed all the time you might as well spend that energy getting some toasts done while fuming.” Grif smiled secretly at the image of a red-faced Simmons about to yell at him when a sudden _beep_ sounded and two slides of toast were shot out of his back. “’sides, this is much more strategic than the toaster. Don’t tell me you _don’t_ want a flashlight right now?” He paused a second, considering, before admitting, “To be honest, I’d rather want a toast.”

“Your survival instincts are stunning,” Simmons said dryly.

“Well, I don’t want to starve to death.”

“Then try to help me here, fatass.”

They both groaned as they twisted and turned, pushing against the metal pieces that kept them trapped. Nothing happened, well, except for Grif almost breaking a leg when Simmons twisted his own metal leg in order to turn around.  They were hopelessly tangled together, and the darkness did not help. Eventually, they gave up and rested again.

“Well, at least we didn’t die,” Grif said as he allowed his shoulder to lean against the metal. “I’m saying it again, Simmons: immortality. Can’t be anything else.”

“Would you shut up about that stupid theory?!”

“It’s not stupid! Look at all the evidence! We’ve survived until this point! That can’t be a coincidence!”

“Literally any other breathing being in the universe can say that,” Simmons pointed out with a huff. “Also whenever you bring up this theory I know you’re getting stupid enough to try and test it.”

“It’s science, Simmons! You love science.”

“It isn’t science! Those are suicidal stunts that only prove your own stupidity.”

“I don’t need any stunts. Sarge is trying to kill me every day, and…” Grif trailed off when he felt Simmons shift his weight. Abandoning the argument, the Hawaiian asked instead, “You haven’t heard any of the others, huh?”

“Couldn’t really go look for them,” Simmons muttered. When he crossed his arms, his fingers brushed against Grif’s elbow. “The only person I’ve found is you and it took forever to figure out you weren’t dead ‘cause you’re such a fucking heavy sleeper…”

When Simmons fell silent, Grif shrugged and said, “Well, the ship was fucking huge. A big piece of crap, actually, since this happened, but still… They’re probably just somewhere else.”

“That doesn’t really help us,” Simmons reminded him. “We can’t do shit until the others find us.”

“And I’ll say it again: private toaster.”

“And I’ll say it again: fucking useless.”

“Not now when we’re about to starve to death!”

Simmons stretched out his leg, kicking Grif’s shin in the process. He suspected it was not an accident. “This is so fucking stupid! Even if I was part kitchen-equipment, we don’t even have any toasts! Also, death by dehydration sets in quicker than starvation.”

“Huh. The more you know.” Trying to get comfortable, Grif managed to turn himself halfway around, his shoulder resting against Simmons’. When he was not shrugged off, he huffed in amusement and muttered, “What was it you said back in Rat’s Nest? ‘ _At least we go together’_?”

“I’m pretty sure what I said was ‘ _this is all your fucking fault, you asshole’_.”

“Well, _yeah_. But before that.”

Simmons fell quiet for five seconds. Then he began to squirm. “Could you try not to sit on me, fatass?”

“This isn’t exactly a fucking mansion. Do you even know where your left hand is? ‘cause I have something cold crawling up my back.”  

“Are you complaining?” Simmons asked him.

Grif smiled smugly in the darkness. “No.”

“Well, shut the fuck up then.”

Grif considered following that order… for about half a second. “You know what would really improve this situation? A toast.”

“Shut up, Grif.”

“Make me!”

Before Simmons could even make an attempt, a voice called out from the other side of the metal, “Are we interrupting something?”

“Tucker-“ the cyborg began but was cut off.

“Simmons!” Sarge’s gruff voice bellowed. “See, what did I tell you, Blue? A true Red is one hundred percent crash-proof. Last man has been found, mission complete.”

Grif banged his elbow against the metal to gain some attention. “Hey, I’m here too!”

“Now when we’ve found Simmons we just need to get Simmons out of there before we let the fire consume any remains of the ship,” Sarge continued undisturbed.

“Fuck you, too!” In his attempt to flip off Sarge, despite knowing the rude gesture would not be seen by anyone, Grif managed to elbow Simmons in the torso.

“Ow.”

“You guys okay in there?” At least Tucker recognized the fact that there were two Reds stuck inside.

“I can’t get Grif off my ass!”

Tucker hesitated for just a moment before asking, “Should we come back later?” His smug smile could be heard in his voice.

“No. No, no, no, no, no, no. No. Please.”

Grif sent Simmons a glare that was unnoticed in the darkness. What a shame. “It’s heart-warming to hear how much you appreciate my presence.”

“I’d love to get your presence out of my fucking face! It’s heavy. And it smells.”

Before attempting to push away the debris, Tucker turned towards Sarge. “I think they’re about to make out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Trapped in a Small Space"


	14. The Sand Beneath My Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun is setting in the distance and Kai is shining even brighter, and Dexter is forcing himself to enjoy every part of it.  
> The last evening before Dexter becomes Grif.

Living in Honolulu made _going to the beach_ seem awfully cliché. But they were out of the tourist season now and there was actually space for them near the water if they kept a distance from the promenade.

Dexter had found enough money to treat them both. They had begun their evening with the biggest and most colorful cone of ice-cream they could afford because they both had memories if their mom buying them this sweet whenever the circus was moving on to the next city.

But of course they were not kids now and Kai had quickly managed to find a store that sold booze - and judging by how she greeted the cashier by yelling out “Steve!”, it may not be the first time she had been here. Now he was just wondering whether this was Asshole-Steve or Steve-with-a-nice-back-tattoo.

They had forgotten to bring any blankets, so Dexter sat down on his butt, digging his hands into the warm sand. Kai, being as cheerful as ever, was doing cartwheels near the edge of the water. Losing her balance, she ended up falling face-first into the sand. She laughed as she brushed it away along with some stray hairs that had been clinging to her forehead.

When her brother did not laugh at the sight, she narrowed her eyes. She attempted to throw a handful of seawater at him but he was sitting too far away; it only hit his feet.  Dexter lowered his head slowly to stare at the drops on his toes.

“Would you knock off the sulking already?” Kai said, throwing herself in front on him. She was lying on her stomach with her feet in the air; her shins were covered with sand. “What? You regretting choosing mint instead of chocolate?”

Dexter looked up briefly to send her a small smile that did not really reach his brown eyes. “Nah.”

“Thanks for the ice-cream, by the way,” she continued cheerfully. She leaned her head back to enjoy the feeling of the sun against her face. “It’s been forever since we’ve done this.”

Dexter turned his head to look at the sea behind her. A few surfers were still having fun while the sun continued to fall slowly towards the horizon. “Yeah…”

“Want to come to the party tonight?” Kai offered after five seconds of silence. “I could get you in. Laila’s sister thinks you are pretty hot when she looks at you from your left side.”

“What the fuck?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty stupid. I always thought men look better from worm’s-eye view.”

Dexter let out a snort. “Sure. Wait, what?”

“So you’ll come. Right?” Kai sent him her biggest smile; the one that reached her eyes and summoned her dimples. She reached for his hands as if to pull him along. “C’mon. It’s been forever since you left couch to have fun! And you’ve been gloomy all week and I don’t want that to rub off on me!”

When he didn’t answer, she tilted her head. “C’mon,” she said again. “Deeeex. Dexy. They’ll have chips. And those small little cakes you like. But stay away from the home-made ones. Mei ate one last time and she was talking about some pigeon for hours.”

“That sounds fun,” Dexter snorted and buried his feet deeper into the sand. Sand between his toes had always been a sensation that annoyed him but now he hoped it was something he would be able to remember when he left. “Think I gonna pass.”

“You’re so boring.” Kai turned over with a whine, now lying on her back while still staring at her brother’s face. “Deeeeeexy. Dexy, Dexy, Dexy-Dex,” she sung teasingly.

The nickname still annoyed him. It sounded like something a girl would name her pet rabbit. But, well… Who knew how long time it would be before someone called him Dexter instead of Grif again?

He leaned back, supporting his weight with his palms. His fingers dug into the sand, as if trying to get a hold of the beach itself. “Look, Kai, there’s something I gotta-“

“You got fired, right?” she asked, blinking. There was a heavy layer of yellow eye-shadow on her eyelids. “That’s why you’ve been such a mood-killer this week.”

“Kai-“

“Bah, who cares? I mean, we care, but you’ll find another job. It’ll take them at least three weeks to figure out how much you suck.” When he didn’t smile back she reached out to shove his leg. “You fucking pissy or what? I suck too, you know. Well, sometimes. I mean, you can’t ask a girl to get in the position every night. I’ll take some extra shifts until you find-“

“ _Kai_ -“

“Okay, we have to move? That’s what you’re trying to tell me?” She was sitting up now, dark hair falling out of her ponytail. “Like, okay, we can do that. Not that I don’t like this place. This place is great. Not _that_ great, I mean, if the other cities got places that are willing to hire my lazy-ass big brother, they’re better. ‘sides, I think I’ve worn out the city here. Time for some new faces, if you know what I mean.” 

She tried to laugh but the sound seemed to get stuck in her throat when her brother did not lift his head to gain eye-contact. Her voice had turned slightly fearful when she asked, “So we’re moving. Right? That’s what this is about? C’mon, answer me, asshole.”

When Dexter raised his glance, he made sure not to look at Kai and her big eyes and her mismatched earrings and her colorful outfit and the worried wrinkles on her forehead.

Instead he looked at the sea behind her. The sun was setting, the last of its golden rays being reflected in the still water. The surfers had disappeared now, probably heading home.

Kai was still staring at him, waiting.

Dexter reached up to rub the back of his neck, blinking again and again. The sun was making his eyes hurt.

“It’s… It’s something like that.”


	15. Identity Theft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bitters almost becomes Spiderman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve always loved the idea of Kai meeting Bitters so I just gave myself the power to let her appear on Chorus for no reason.

Of course the similarities were obvious to everyone. They both disliked work, they both hated authority, they both preferred to stay behind in the mess hall whenever a mission would take place, they both wore the color orange and they both kept the laid-back attitude that annoyed the people around them.

So maybe it was not so surprising at would cause some confusion –for some people.

Bitters was napping ever so soundly when someone kicked him in the side. His eyes snapped open behind the visor. Faintly realizing he was not dealing with an annoyed Fed, he turned his head to continue sleeping with his back against the crate.

“Fuck off, Matthews,” he muttered, having opened his eyes a little to notice the yellow armor. But Matthews had never really been that violent whenever he tried to wake up his teammate and -

“Oh my god, you’re not my brother!”

He had most definitely never had a female voice before.

Bitters opened his to see that the person in front of him was wearing completely yellow armor – most certainly not Matthews. She had her hands on her hips, staring down at him. Trying to figure out what the fuck was going on and why the fuck he needed to be awake for it, Bitters sat up slightly. “No?”

“Thief!” she barked, and before Bitters could even react, she launched herself at him. He was forced onto his back while she placed herself on his chest. She was heavy enough to immobilize him and… and he was pretty sure she was currently attempting to strangle him with her thighs. “This is totally theft! Identity theft! And I’ve seen that up-close, Mister, I know what it looks like!”

“What the fuck!” Bitters said with a frown, squirming slightly. While he knew that suddenly on patrol was punishable, this was downright crazy. “Whatever. Fuck. Let me call-“

“You snitch!” she screamed, lowering her helmet closer to his. “You never call the police! That’s so uncool!”

“You’re attacking me!” Bitters had to point out. Not that he was even sure of what to tell either Kimball or Grif if he managed to get in contact with them; it was not every day a girl was attempting to strangle you. Well, maybe it was something that had happened to Palomo before.

“You’re roleplaying my brother! That’s weird and the one roleplay I’d never say yes to!” She stopped trying to kill him for a second; instead she leaned back, as if trying to find a comfortable spot on his chest. “’sides, this is my brother’s super secret hiding spot, so you’re totally invading private property and that makes you a thief!”

“No,” Bitters had to reply flatly. He narrowed his eyes behind his visor. “That makes you are trespasser since this is Gold Team territory.”

Well, technically. At least this was _the_ best napping spot around here which Grif had immediately claimed ownership over. After a couple of successful mission, mostly due to the no-snitching contract on Gold Team, Bitters had for some reason been allowed to use it as well. It annoyed Matthews to no end, so Bitters was not going to complain.

“You don’t even look gold!” she exclaimed, and, well…

Good point.

“It’s _orange_ and… Aren’t you colorblind anyway?” Bitters had put the pieces together by now. Mainly because there was a very limited amount of people who would confuse him for her brother – who had to be Grif. Bitters was by no way a stalker but Matthews certainly was and he knew every accessible detail of Captain Grif’s private life since it _could come in handy_. As if.

“How do you know that?” She let out a loud gasp, leaning closer to his face. “Are you a stalker? ‘cause that’s pretty hot but I don’t even know you are, you creep!”

“Stop that.” He finally managed to wriggle an arm lose and immediately used it to shove her off himself. He pushed himself up by his palms, gaining eye-contact with her, well, visor-contact if anything. “Lieutenant Bitters. Your brother’s Lieutenant.”

Finally it seemed like she realize the situation. “Ooooh,” she said, letting out a noise that was a mix between surprised and astonished.

“Ring a bell?” he asked very dryly after letting out a snort. Bitters pushed himself up so he was standing, just to be ready to get out of here should she attack him again.

“Sure!” Grif’s sister replied cheerfully, as if forgetting she had been the one trying to kill him just the minute before. “You’re my brother’s boy!”

Bitters never really lost his façade enough to drop his jaw, but this time he was very close. “What?”

The yellow-armored soldier nodded energetically. “Yeah, Tucker told me about you. You’re like a mini-Dex.”

“I… What?” Bitters tilted his helmet slightly, frowning.

“So I guess that makes me your aunt.” While she had started out sounding excited by the thought, the sister suddenly let out a disgusted sound that indicated she was wrinkling her nose. “Yuck, that sounds old. And gross! Unless we can be like in Spiderman! The new one! She’s hot! It could totally work. It’d be so cool! Can you spray white stuff?”

Bitters began to back away because he was not quite sure what this conversation was about but he would rather not continue it. “Uh..?”

“From your hands. _Duh_.” She tilted her head backwards to laugh. “Hah, I bet you blushed inside your helmet!”

“ _No_ ,” he said sternly, making sure to keep a distance between them. “I’m just gonna… go.”

“Hey, you can’t just go in the middle of a conversation!” She took some steps forward as if to follow him. “That’s rude!”

“You tried to strangle me with your thighs,” he reminded her dryly. That was not a sentence he had ever said out loud before.

“It’s called melee combat! Look it up!”

“What did you even _want_?” Bitters asked. Being woken up from a nap, then almost being killed and then getting almost traumatized by weird questions had not improved his mood. At all.

The sister tilted her helmet again. “Well, the grey guy said Big Bro was probably here… And then I saw you playing dead, and that is a very Big Bro-thing to do.”

“I wasn’t playing dead,” Bitters huffed. “I was _napping_.” It felt awfully wrong having to explain this.

About a second later, she let out a warm laughter again. “Are we sure you’re not my brother?”

“Yes,” Bitters replied immediately but for some reason he could not really bring himself to feel offended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the box "Mistaken Identity".  
> This is my last entry for the bingo war (the winner will be announced later today), so this story won't be updated that often for now! But it's been fun and I managed to write 15 entries with a total of 20.000 words in two weeks! So proud of myself.


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